


blood on your hands

by Frosted-Soil (Jackson_Overland_Frost)



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Age Difference, Alastor-typical gore, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angel Dust-Typical Sexual Content (Hazbin Hotel), Asexual Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Bodily fluids count as ink!, Eventual Sexual Content, Human Characters (for a while), Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, I’m trying to keep the tags short so that people actually read then lmao, I’ve been told this is a slowburn????, M/M, No Beta, Parent Death, TWs in the chapter notes, Voodoo, but not with radiodust, ever wonder why Angel and Alastor always wear gloves?, idk man, the one where if you write on your skin it appears on the other person, “Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings” IS THERE FOR A REASON
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 49,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26520562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackson_Overland_Frost/pseuds/Frosted-Soil
Summary: When you mark your own skin, your soulmate receives that mark as well — whether that be the black of ink, the red of blood, or the white of... other bodily fluids. When your soulmate dies, the soulmark that indicated their death turns black, permanently tattooed into their soulmate’s skin. Soul bonds aren’t supposed to work after death, but there are always one or two exceptions.“Creator chose not to use archive warnings” is there for a reason.[sporadic updates]
Relationships: Alastor & Met Kalfu (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust & Arackniss (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust & Molly (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust & Valentino (Hazbin Hotel), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 222
Kudos: 596





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re used to my meticulously planned fics with upload schedules and chapter/word count estimates, go ahead and throw all of that away right now. This is getting updates as I write them, also bold of you to assume I know where this is going or how long it’s going to be.

Alastor hadn’t grown up hearing about soulmates. Words and drawings had never appeared on his skin, and his mother had never mentioned it to him. She never taught him that when ink showed up on his arms and legs, that meant there was someone destined for him out there. Looking back on the memories, Alastor didn’t remember ever seeing soulmarks on her skin either — just smooth brown all the way up to her shoulders, and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks. He  _ did _ remember the mutters though, because how could he not? “Poor Ms. LeBlanc, and her soulless son” — Alastor could have screamed. 

Whenever his mother saw that he could hear the people they passed, she would nudge him on the shoulder. “You’re neva fully dressed w’out a smile, mon cher,” she would say. “A smile means you are stronger than dey are.” 

It was no matter anyways. Alastor didn’t need a soulmate. He was perfectly happy without one. His skin was as unmarked as his mother’s, and he quite liked it that way, thank-you-very-much. And whenever he felt the need to scream, he would go out to the bayou and let off as much steam as he needed there. And if the cat of Mrs. Nelson, a woman who didn’t seem to understand the virtue of lowering her voice when she spoke, disappeared into the bayou one day and never came back, so what? Alligators live in that bayou, Mrs. Nelson, and Alastor didn’t have nothing to do with it whatsoever. 

The day before his interview at the local radio station, he asked his mother if she could write on his arms for him. 

“Momma, please just do it,” he told her. “I don’t need a soulmate when I have you.” Alastor didn’t mention that it was unlikely the station would hire him if they thought he was “soulless” like all their neighbors did. 

A few weeks after he got the job, his mother died in a car accident on the far side of town. Her funeral was one of the last times Alastor let his smile drop in public. 

-=-=-=-

Still dressed in his red and black suit from the funeral, Alastor sat cross-legged at a crossroads just outside of town. He pulled a thermos of hot coffee out of his bag and poured it into a mug, mixing in cane syrup. Calling for Papa Legba didn’t usually call for this amount of ceremony, but anything that might increase his chances of being noticed were being thrown out today. The only part that was missing was a veve — Alastor didn’t want to call in the wrong loa by accident because of some little mistake or inaccuracy, so he thought it better not to specify. 

As Alastor continued to chant, a muscular dark-skinned man stepped out of the trees with a wide smile. 

“Young man, ya look rather distraught. Whatcha callin’ Papa Legba so hard for — anyone’d know he’s busy.”

“I must talk to him,” Alastor answered, pausing his chant and looking up. The man looked slightly familiar, but Alastor couldn’t seem place his face even as he scanned through his memory. “In person, not just by praying.”

“Yer holdin’ out for a loa to appear to ya? That hardly ever happens, even to tha most practiced practitioners.” He scoffed. “Its a foolish game that you’re playing, boy.” 

“Not so foolish, if a loa has in fact appeared to me,” Alastor said. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure of your name.”

The loa laughed, stepping closer and actually onto the road, before sitting cross legged on the ground across from Alastor. “Very clever!” He crowed. He picked up the coffee and took a sip, swishing it around in his mouth before spitting it back out onto the ground. “Not to my usual tastes — if you by chance wanna summon me again, rum an’ gunpowda will do quite nicely. This is far too sweet. What can I do ya for, boy?”

“Would you be willing to open the crossroad gates for me? If you were willing to appear in front of me, then maybe Baron Samedi would be so gracious as to do the same.” 

“You need Baron Samedi? Ha!” The loa barked. “Who’s spirit do you need? I can bring you just about anyone, for the right price.” 

Alastor’s smile twisted. “You can open the crossroads  _ and  _ summon the dead? If you don’t mind me asking, who exactly are you?” 

“What does it matter? I know who  _ you _ are.” The loa smirked and held out his hand to shake. “Who are you looking for, my boy?”

“My mother. She died recently in a car crash. I need to talk to her.” Alastor reached out and took the loa’s hand. The was a prickling feeling in his palm, and Alastor suddenly realized — they were shaking  _ left _ hands. 

He raised an eyebrow. “You know, dere are better ways of dealing with grief than summoning the loa. But of course, I am not here to judge.” The loa’s grip on his hand grew tighter and tighter, and until claws that Alastor hadn’t even noticed pierced the skin of his wrist and sent blood spattering to the gravel of the road. 

“Ms. LeBlanc?” The loa said as casually as if it was a phone call, ignoring Alastor as he tried to configure his pained grimace back into a smile. “Your son’s here for ya.”

His mother appeared, as vivid as she had been in life and perhaps little bit more in addition to that. Her back was to him, and Alastor flinched when she immediately jerked back and scrambled into a standing position. The loa’s claws tore further into his flesh when he did so and didn’t let go of his wrist, preventing Alastor from moving too far if he didn’t want to tear off his hand altogether. 

“Met Kalfu!” His mother immediately said, and Alastor’s blood ran cold. “Some nerve you have summoning me at a time like this. Why am I here?” 

“Your son did agree for me to call you here~” Kalfu said, the smirk never leaving his face, and his mother spun around. 

“Mon  _ cher _ ,” she scolded him. “I’m sorry for leaving you, but what in the  _ world _ indicated that you should mess with the loa, let alone Met Kalfu.” 

“In his defense,” The Met spoke up, “your son tried to summon the good Papa Legba first. Give him a little credit.” 

His mother huffed, and with another spin and a sad smile, she vanished. Met Kalfu let Alastor’s arm slip away, and he cradled his wrist close to his chest. The wounds suddenly didn’t seem as deep as they had before, but he was still bleeding profusely. This suit was certainly ruined. 

“Well, dat was what it was,” Met Kalfu said with a shrug. “I mentioned a price before, so here’s the deal. I brought you a dead person, now you bring me one — to dis same crossroads, if you please.”

And with that, the Met disappeared as well. 

-=-=-=-

Alastor washed his hands and up his forearms, frowning at the mirror as red swirled against the white porcelain. Now that the thrill of the kill had passed, he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. Chasing his prey through the woods near the crossroads where he eventually had to drag them had been risky, with his victim screaming for help the entire way until he caught up and cut their vocal chords out entirely. And it had been simply pathetic. 

He supposed that it was necessary, for the sake of his deal with Met Kalfu, but if given the choice Alastor decided he would never do that again. He had been hunting for years, and he much preferred for his prey to come to him anyways. 

Well. He would be moving to the city for his radio host position anyhow, and humans would be a much more convenient choice for hunting than going out to the bayou again. And maybe Met Kalfu could use another offering or two. 

As all the dried blood was finally scraped away from his hands, three pale scars revealed themselves as if years old, exactly where the loa had marked him. 

-=-=-=-

Moving to the city did Alastor good, both in his career and his hobbies. People listened to his radio show, and prey was easy to tempt into dark corners where Alastor was waiting with poisons and sharp knives, and sometimes little gifts that the Met had given him. Even during the stock market crash, food was easy enough to keep on the table when he didn’t have to buy meat. The axeman paved the way for the Smiling Murderer of New Orleans, and the crime sections of his shows practically wrote themselves. 

One night, Alastor was getting ready to bring his tarp out to the bayou for clean-up and disposal. He had already chosen which cuts of meat he wanted to keep and had put them in his freezer, so the rest could go to the alligators. There was just one spot of red on his knee that wouldn’t come off. 

Examining it closer, it didn’t seem to be dried or anything — even when he rubbed it with his finger it didn’t feel like anything was there. And the blood red markings were more in line with a scrape or something rather than the spatter that Alastor would have expected. In fact, it was so flat on his skin that it looked almost like a soulmate mark — ah. Well. It seemed like someone had scraped their knee that day then. Alastor made a mental note to pick up a pair of gloves before his next hunting excursion. 

-=-=-=-

“What’re you gonna write to ya soulmate, Tony?” Molly asked excitedly, flopping onto Anthony’s bed. 

Their ma had let them back upstairs to their bedroom to sleep after finally telling them what the huge fuss about soulmates was. Molly had been the one who asked — she had been getting marks on her skin already, and she was only five. Anthony hadn’t received a single mark yet, but his ma had told him he was still young. His soulmate was probably just too little, or maybe not even born yet! 

The twins shared a bedroom, though they had separate beds. Anthony had let Molly choose how to decorate their room so most of the things were pink or white, but he liked it more than anything his dad would have insisted on if Anthony had chosen the colors. 

“Ya  _ are _ gonna write somethin’, aren’tcha?” She continued. “Gosh, its just exciting, I hope he writes me back!” 

“I dunno yet, Molls,” Anthony said, flopping onto his back. Molly fell almost on top of him, startling giggles out of them both. “What’re you gonna say? I don’ even know if my soulmate’s out there yet — what if I don’t get a response?” 

“Then try again another time, silly!” She told him. “I'm gonna ask for  _ my _ soulmate’s name. I hope he knows how ta spell already, but momma said she thinks he’s a bit older than me, so he betta!”

“No fair that  _ your _ soulmate’s already talkin’ to ya,” he complained, and rolled over onto his stomach when he saw Molly reach for a pen. “Hey Molls, lemme see. If ya soulmate’s a jerk, ya better ditch ‘im.” 

“‘Course he’s not gonna be, Tony,” Molly said, and obligingly moved her arm over so that Anthony could see what she was writing.

“Wassat say?” Anthony asked. He wasn’t as good at reading or writing as his sister, but his ma assured him that he still had a head start on other kids. His dad just looked at him all disappointed, but Anthony’s dad was always like that, so it didn’t really matter. 

“It says — hi, I’m Molly — and then underneath that it says — what’s your name?” 

“Oh, right,” Anthony said, sighing as he leaned against his sister’s shoulder. “I always forget that h in the word ‘what’. Can ya write on my arm for me? You’re better at spellin’ than I am, and your writin’ looks nicer.”

“Sure!” She chirped, grabbing onto her brother’s arm. “Whatcha want me ta write?”

“How ‘bout just ‘ma name’s Anthony,” and thas all? Then even if my soulmate’s just a baby his parents will know ma name.” 

“ _ She _ , Tony. Ya soulmate’s a she!  _ My _ soulmate’s a he.”

“She than. I dunno the difference really, I never met her before.”

Anthony heard a gasp from his sister and he jerked upright, eyes darting to his arm where a smiley face was being drawn in black ink next to the words Molly had just written. He rubbed the new mark gleefully, and a contagious giggle spread between the two twins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore my babies Molly and Anthony, they’re just the cutest :) idk if you can tell but I love to write kids. Please leave a comment, they’re all much appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reasons to spoil me with comments: two chapters in a row
> 
> Please remember that Angel is still really young!! I checked and double checked this chapter, so all typos are intentional. Kay — now please enjoy!
> 
> Angel/Anthony is in italics  
> Alastor is in bold

Alastor put the pen back on the table with a sigh. He had known about his soulmate for… perhaps a year or two by now? But they had never written him anything before, only announcing their existence with a scraped knee, a papercut, and so on. It hadn’t really registered to him that perhaps his soulmate was really just too young to do so. Looking at the writing on his arm now, it was certain that this was the case. 

“ _My name is Anthony_ ” it read, in a child’s handwriting. It was also written upside-down, which probably meant Anthony had asked someone else to write it for him. Another point to the “Alastor’s soulmate might be a literal child” idea. He wondered if he ought to be relieved, to not be soulless like everyone said, but such a large age gap wasn’t much better.

And — a boy’s name, Anthony was. Alastor didn’t care much himself, but he certainly knew people who would. 

On an instinct, Alastor had answered with a smiley face — a tamer version of his killer’s signature. He supposed he shouldn’t let his soulmate grow up thinking they were soulless like he had. The idea of someone being out there after all intrigued him now, after all these years of being alone. Who knew what the universe was planning, pairing a child with someone like _him_. If nothing else, at least interacting with his soulmate would be entertaining — they were supposed to be perfect for him, after all. 

After another minute or two, another, slightly crooked smiley face appeared in response to his own. 

-=-=-=-

Anthony was ecstatic that his soulmate was actually around, but for a long time, those little black smiley faces were all that he got, even when he asked them a straight up question, like their name, age, or even their favorite color. In fact, those ones didn’t get a response at all, as if his soulmate was just ignoring his inquiries. Eventually, he just started calling his soulmate “Smiles”, and gave up on questions altogether. It was fine if they didn’t want to talk to him — it was already really nice of them just to listen!

“G’night, Smiles!” He would often write before he went to sleep, as neatly as he could manage. And within a few moments, without fail, a little black smiley face would appear in response, as if his soulmate was wishing him a good night as well. Anthony liked his soulmate already. 

The day before Molly and his sixth birthday though, something different happened. He wrote to Smiles before he went to bed as usual, though with a good deal more excitement — _its my b-day tommorow! I’m really happy!_ — but there was no response. Not even after he had waited a few minutes for his soulmate to see it. Instead, a red streak slowly wound down his forearm like water down a cold glass on a hot day. 

Eyes widening, Anthony tried to roll his sleeve up further, but when he couldn’t get it up much higher than his elbow he rolled it back down and just took off his shirt altogether. His entire upper arm near his shoulder was covered in red and he nearly screamed, toning it down to a yelp at the last second. 

“Uhhhh, Molly…?” He asked shakily, not moving from his spot on the bed. 

His sister rolled over sleepily, but she jerked awake when she saw the blood red state of his arm. “Tony? What’s wrong? What happened?” She sat up and turned on the room’s lamp before coming over to see. 

“I dunno,” he almost cried. “Smiles weren't answerin’ and suddenly this happened!” 

“Ya want me to go get momma?” Molly asked, wrapping an arm around him as the mark continued to spread. A little smear appeared on his torso, and then a more purposeful one across the words that Anthony had just written. 

“...No, don’t,” he said, sniffling. “Pops might still be up, and ya know he doesn’t like it when we leave the room after bedtime, even if it’s you an’ not me.”

“Alright Tony, if ya say so,” she reached over and handed him the pen, leaning into him comfortingly. “You gonna write him then?” 

He held out his arm to her nervously. “Can you do it for me Molls? My hands aren’t so steady righ’ now, and your writin’s betta than mine on a good day anyhow.” 

Molly pushed him lightly. “Notta chance, Tony. Smiles’ll recognize your handwrittin’ by now, so I ain’t writin’ for ya anymore.”

Anthony frowned and put the pen shakily to his arm, in a spot not yet touched by the blood. “You better be okay, Smiles,” he said out loud as he wrote. 

As he put the pen back down, he saw red creeping up the tips of his fingers, and the two watched morbidly along as blood slowly stained both of his arms, almost up to his elbows. 

-=-=-=-

Thankfully, the knife his attempted mugger had tried to stab him with had only ruined his coat and scraped his arm. It had certainly bled a lot, but he had bandaged it up and it didn’t particularly hurt anymore. And the man himself hadn’t been difficult to deal with whatsoever, though unfortunately he wouldn’t be added to the Smiling Murderer’s count. Still, Alastor knew his soulmate was still seeing the bloodied version of the wound, considering he himself could still see the boy’s concerned messages. 

His soulmate was quite sweet, really. Calling him “Smiles” when he refused to disclose his name, so worried about him even though Alastor had never answered any of his questions — Anthony was like the little angel on his shoulder, as pure as the illustrations in children’s bibles. In the end, Anthony was the one who had inspired him to add the second rule to his mental list of things he would _never_ do unless someone forced his hand. Children were no longer acceptable prey. 

Picking up one of his black pens, he uncapped it in order to assuage Anthony’s concerns with his signature smile, when he paused. It was the boy’s birthday today, wasn’t it? Alastor considered for a few moments, and finally wrote — **I’m alright, little angel** — in careful print, since he wasn’t sure if the boy knew how to read cursive yet. And at the end, Alastor added a little smiley face. 

-=-=-=-

_Thank you for riting back! Me and molly wore really woried for you. Ari was to I think, but he didnt say so cuz he’s so mean_

**Thank you for worrying :) I didn’t want to ruin your birthday, after all. How old are you turning?**

_6!!_

-=-=-=-

_Today was Ari’s b-day, and he’s pops faverit so he_ ~~_toock_~~ _took all of us out for egg creams!_

**That’s nice, little angel. Did you have fun?**

_Yeah, lots! Gnight, smiles!_

**Good night, anthony :)**

-=-=-=-

_So smiles, what’s your real name?_

_Never mind. You don’t_ ~~_hafe_~~ _have to tell me._

-=-=-=-

**Are you alright, little angel?**

_Yeah. Ari_ ~~_pa_~~ _pushed me on the graval and I’m a little_ ~~_skraped_~~ _scraped up, but he let me ~~have~~_ _~~haf~~ have _ _some of his_ _~~desert dezzer~~ t _ _pudding and ma fixed me up, so I’m okay_

-=-=-=-

_Pops_ ~~_taut_~~ _taugt me how to hold a gun today_

**little angel, you’re seven**

_So? He taugt Ari_ ~~_yonger_~~ _yunger than me, and its not like I shot it or something_

**Please just be careful then.**

-=-=-=-

**What do your parents do, Anthony?**

_Is this about the gun thing again?_

_Pops says we’re part of the_ ~~_honered_~~ _honored sosiaty (?)_

**I see. And it's spelled “society”, little angel**

-=-=-=-

**Do you really want to know my name, Anthony?**

_You_ ~~_red_~~ _remembered my birthday!_

**Of course I did.**

_Its ok. You don’t have to tell me you’re name if you don’t wanna_

**Thank you, little angel :)**

-=-=-=-

As was tradition, Anthony saw his first dead body on his ninth birthday. His father had been saving a particular rat just for him, and he saw the corpse sprawled across the kitchen floor as he came downstairs to have breakfast. He looked away and swallowed, focusing instead on his mom’s irritated expression as she made breakfast while trying not to step in the slowly spreading pool of blood. Once Anthony had schooled his face into as unphased an expression as he could, he glanced at his father, who was sitting at the dining table with a mug of coffee. 

His father gave one of his rare looks of approval and gestured for Anthony to come and sit down at the table. Ari came in from the other room as well, made a slightly disgruntled look at the corpse on the floor, and came to sit down as well. His reaction didn’t matter though — Ari had made his first kill already, cementing his spot as their father’s favorite son. 

Anthony looked around curiously. “Where’s Molly?” He asked, not seeing her around. The two didn’t share a room anymore, since Anthony had moved into Ari’s old room when his older brother switched into an old guest room for more space. 

“She’s stayin’ in her room until clean-up comes through,” his father answered. 

“Oh. Is she not—” Anthony paused as Ari quickly shook his head at him from out of his father’s line of sight. “Right then.”

His father fixed him with a look. “Did you have something to comment on, Anthony?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. 

_It ain’t fair that you’re lettin’ Molls stay in her room while I still gotta do the tradition,_ Anthony thought. “No, pops. I was just expecting to see her downstairs, is all.” 

“Good.” He nodded and turned away, letting Ari shoot Anthony a small smile. Anthony mouthed a _thank you_ back to him. 

“Henry, clean-up’s at the door,” Anthony’s uncle called out, poking his head in through the doorway. “Oh, Anthony — happy birthday, kid. Henry.”

“Yeah yeah, let them in. Tell ‘em to be fast, breakfast is almost ready.”

-=-=-=- 

_You ever seen a dead body before, smiles?_

**Yes. What’s wrong, little angel?**

_I just saw my 1st one today. I dunno what I wanted to happen. Pops is gonna want me to start helpin out on hits soon to. What do you do?_

**Don’t find out more about your kill than you need to. Is your dad going to** **_make_ ** **you join the family business?**

_Uh huh_

**Then it’s you or them. Every time, it’s you or them. Choose yourself.**

_Thank you, smiles. I’ll try to keep it in my mind._

**Happy birthday, Anthony :)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their little conversations were my favorite (and the easiest) part of this to write. I’ve kept a journal since I was.... eight? So Angel’s little typos/mistakes are all based off of my own at that age. He’s not great at spelling yet, haha.
> 
> Please leave a comment, I really super appreciate them!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I see your “Alastor knew Husk when they were alive” and raise you: Alastor knew Niffty while they were alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not responding to all the comments but I do read and squeal over and appreciate all of them!! I’m just really busy *cries*. Hope this chapter makes up for it babes. 
> 
> Also, I’m adjusting the tags as I write this, because I know what’s happening next only a bit more than you guys do, haha. This is a reminder, because “period-typical homophobia” just showed up there. 
> 
> [Trigger warnings for this chapter at the bottom]

Alastor had recently hired a maid — a short, red-haired white lady who used to work for the local mafia family. Being dark-skinned himself, Alastor appreciated the irony of hiring a white maid, but Naomi suited his needs too much to turn down. Maids who could clean up blood and potentially other body parts as well were… difficult to come by, to say the least, and more so were those who would not fear him after being made to do so. As much as he enjoyed fear, being around someone who was constantly cowering sounded incredibly irritating. And Naomi was a nifty little thing. 

Just a few years younger than him, Naomi was sweet and fearless and unafraid of getting her hands dirty, if the space would end up cleaner for it. She had read his contract with a practiced eye that Alastor admired, even if she couldn’t sense the more spiritual side of their deal. And, of course, she was an excellent maid, keeping his home spotless while he drove bodies out to the bayou, and all other times besides. 

Her own soulmate had been in the mafia with her, but he had been… disciplined a year or two back, and Naomi no longer had any interest in romance, nor in organized crime. Not that the latter just let you leave, so Alastor had been happy to offer the girl some protection in return for the protection from the police that she lended to _ him _ . It was a deal that worked out for them both. 

Alastor wasn’t too familiar with the mafia (or as Anthony’s father had put it, the “Honored Society”), but he wasn’t against killing a member or two off. He was perfectly aware of its presence of course — any reasonable man who frequented New Orleans’ many speakeasies was inevitably quite aware of where their liquor came from. And the Smiling Murderer had gone after a made man or another in his time. 

And, on the other side of the connection — well, he wasn’t sure which mafia family Anthony was a part of, but still. Teaching so young a child how to murder — Alastor’s own mother hadn’t let him go hunting until he was eleven, not for lack of asking on his own part. And Anthony was just… so small, still. Alastor wasn’t sure whether to be proud of his little angel or absolutely furious at the boy’s father. 

Well, who said he couldn’t be both? There wasn’t a single lesson on killing that Alastor knew which Anthony would have to learn by experience, and there was a particular lesson that Alastor wanted to teach the boy’s father if they ever met. He didn’t find it strange that he felt so protective of his soulmate — what else was he meant to do when the fates blessed him with such a lovely one to watch over? 

-=-=-=-

_ Heya smiles! Molly is being really annoying that you’re a she, and we never met so I say it doesn’t matter if we call you a he or a she _

**Your point?**

_ Well, which are you? _

-=-=-=-

_ Sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier _

**No problem, little angel. I’ll tell you, but I thought I should wait until there weren’t certainly people looking over your shoulder. Perhaps somewhere easy to cover up?**

~~_ Thights _ ~~ _ thighs? It’s winter. _

-=-=-=-

_ So you’re… _

**I am a “he”, yes. Unimportant to some, morally bankrupt to others**

_ Yeah well, we aren’t meeting for a while so it don’t matter yet _

**Not until you’re 18, at least**

_ That’s not for Forever! How old are ya anyways, smiles? _

**Careful Anthony, it’s not your birthday yet**

_ Can I tell Molly? _

**That one is your decision, little angel**

-=-=-=-

“Go ahead and take Molly out for the day, but I’m keeping Anthony. It’s time he sees the kind of work he’ll have to get into anyways,” Anthony heard, the door to his parents’ bedroom open just a sliver, enough for his father’s voice to sound unmuffled.

“You already have Ari, and now you’re taking Anthony as well? Henry, he’s still so young, hardly in his double digits—”

Anthony paused, hand hovering over the doorknob, and stepped away silently. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good time to ask his momma about what it meant if Smiles was a boy, then. If he was going out today, especially with Pops, he was probably expected to put on some proper clothing. He only heard a few snippets of the conversation as he padded as quietly as he could back down the hallway. 

He had just turned the corner when he heard the door open behind him, and he broke into a near sprint, racing down the hallway on socked feet as the click-thump of his father’s shoes came towards him. Turning into his bedroom, Anthony left the door just slightly open behind him before catching his breath, since he knew the metallic sound of the door closing was distinctive enough that he would be caught. Before he had his breath completely back though, the footsteps stopped just outside his door, and Anthony jerked upright. 

Moving swiftly, he grabbed a half-read novel off a chair and nearly fell onto his bed, schooling his breathing into evenness, though his heart pounded furiously. He was just in time though, as his father creaked open the door. Anthony heard a sigh of disappointment first, and internally groaned — he hadn’t changed, and was still in pajamas. 

“Nearly nine o’clock and still not out of bed, I see,” his father said, voice dripping with displeasure. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected better — you’ve always been the laziest of your siblings. Get up, you’re coming out with me today. I have business to run, so none of your usual dawdling about.” 

“Yes, pops,” Anthony said, waiting for his father to leave before moving. 

There was a scoff, and his father turned back towards the hallway. “If you don’t make things more difficult for yourself and aren’t completely useless while we’re out, we’ll be back in time for dinner,” he was told, and the door clicked closed. 

As soon as his father was gone, Anthony jumped into action, hopping off his bed and pulling clothes out of his wardrobe and closet. Trousers and boots and a button-down shirt — in dark maroon, since that was the closest color to pink that he wasn’t too afraid to ask for. When he was younger the whole pink thing was fine, but all of a sudden his father had come home and thrown about half his things in the fireplace and trash, so Anthony had learned fast. 

Changing and then heading downstairs, Anthony was herded into his father’s automobile before they were driven away by one of the mafia’s many “soldiers”. Ari wasn’t there, unfortunately — his brother may not have been the nicest, but his little nods and headshakes were more helpful than any of his father’s curt explanations. Though he had never been on one of these excursions before, Anthony knew enough to just sit still and hold his tongue unless directly spoken to. From his pockets, he took out a pair of soft white gloves, and pulled them on. 

-=-=-=-

It was nearly dinner time, but Anthony had been nearly silent all day so they only had one stop left before they could go back home. His father had eaten lunch in a meeting that Anthony hadn’t been allowed into, so he was rather hungry, and eager for his ma’s cooking. 

Finally, the car stopped in front of a dark building with no windows, with a sign above the door that said “The One-Eyed Tiger”, and below that, in smaller text, “gentleman’s club”. Anthony and his father got out, and the driver took their car down the street and around the corner. 

The inside of the club, at least, was less dark, and actually quite bustling, mostly with women. A man in a dark suit came quickly up to the entrance with a confident smile and held out a hand for Anthony’s father to shake. 

“Henry Ragno! Welcome to our establishment, don’t mind the workers. You’re here for the dough and papers, aren’t you? Come into the back, I have some excellent news for you on that regard,” the man said, waving them further inside. His eyes didn’t even land on Anthony as he spoke. 

“I’m glad you are so enthused, old friend,” Anthony’s father responded. And with a dismissive “don’t cause any trouble, Anthony”, he was left in the front room on his own. 

Standing still got boring  _ fast _ , especially after struggling to remain silent for the majority of the day. Keeping quiet wasn’t at  _ all _ in Anthony’s nature, so he instead wandered up to the least busy lady he could spot — a girl around nineteen years old on a barstool, doing her makeup in a small mirror set up on the bar itself. She had thick, curly black hair about chin-length and pale green eyes, and an hourglass figure that was perhaps a little heavier on the top than the bottom. 

Anthony hopped up onto a stool as well, his feet not quite able to comfortably reach the floor, but he managed by just wrapping them around the stool’s legs instead. 

“Um, hello,” he ventured hesitantly, about to lean onto the bar but wasn’t actually close enough to do so. He put his gloved hands in his lap instead. “Whatcha doin’?”

The girl turned and beamed at him, putting down her brush. “Oh, hi! When’d you get ‘ere? I’m jus’ prettyin’ myself up for my show t’night. It’s not for a while yet, but I like to be a lil’ bit early.”

“What kinda show?” Anthony asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone like you at a play or nothin’ before.”

“Oh, I’m a dancer!” She explained eagerly, turning back to the mirror. She continued talking as she finished applying a layer of rouge to her cheekbones. “It’s a kinda dance called burlesque that lots of men like to come an’ watch. My name’s Constance, but you can just call me Connie. What’s your’s?”

“My name’s Anthony,” he told her. “I’m ten now, so pops has started takin’ me out on trips.”

“Only ten?” Connie asked in surprise, eyes darting over to him. “This ain’t no place for a ten year old. Is your dad Mista Ragno? I saw ya come in with him.” 

“Yeah! Does pops come around here often? I’ve neva been here before, and he doesn’t talk about his business much at home, ‘cept with my brother Ari.”

“Mista Ragno is good friends with this place’s owner, Frank Gigante. Most’a the other girls jus’ call ‘im Frank, but I can’t get used to it.” Connie shook her head. “Oh, an’ I’ve seen your pop in the audience a few times while I was dancin’, but not too often. Jus’ twice since I started, and I’ve been workin’ here for almos’ three months by now.”

“Are ya good at dancin’, Miss Connie?” Anthony asked, and she laughed. 

“None’a that ‘miss’ stuff, I ain’t respectable enough,” she giggled. “I’m not as good as somma the other girls here, but I’m well enough. Come round this same time again and I could probably show ya a move or two. I’d invite ya to a show, but you ain’t exactly the intended audience for those.” She laughed again. 

“Whatcha mean, Connie?” 

“Haven’t your parents talked to ya yet? ‘Specially since one’a them’s Mista Ragno,” Connie said. “We only let olda folks into the club past openin’, cus it gets real sexual in here. I dunno how else to explain it, but it ain’t fit for kids.”

“Kay,” Anthony said with a shrug. “If ya say so. We’re friends now, right?” 

“Why not,” she said, turning away again. “Friends with Mista Ragno’s ten year old son — now that’s a laugh an’ a half. Ya ain’t bad company though.”

“If we’re friends now, then I think I’d like to see ya dance some time,” Anthony chirped. 

The sound of footsteps behind him, and then — “Anthony. I told you to stay out of trouble.”

Anthony spun around in his seat to see his father looking down at him, eyebrows furrowed and nostrils flared. He shrunk back slightly, folding his arms across his stomach. 

“Oh, he wasn’t any trouble, Mista Ragno,” Connie piped up. “None at all! Actually, it was nice ta have some company while I was gettin’ ready — you might think about bringin’ him round again sometime.” She shifted in her seat, hands between her legs and fingers curled around the edge of her stool as she looked up at Anthony’s father. Her back was slightly arched, shoulders back, and she batted her long black eyelashes at him. 

His father huffed, and stepped back. “Perhaps,” he said, finally. “Come along, Anthony. We ought to be going.”

“Yes pops, I’m comin’.” He aimed a thankful smile towards Connie on their way out, and she shot a wink back before turning back to the bar and starting to pack up her make-up. 

In the car, Anthony’s father turned to him, a perfectly neutral expression on his face. “You’re lucky I came out of my meeting with Frank in a good mood,” he said finally. “A good enough mood that your last disappointment won’t influence my decision. As it is, I’ll keep taking you out, give out a feel for the business. Failure that you are, you still might be ready for your first hit in a year or two.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: basically just Henry/Henroin being an abusive piece of shit. It’s... pretty tame compared to some of what I’ve seen, but take care of yourselves. Angel’s childhood wasn’t pretty. 
> 
> I hope you guys liked Connie! My first hazbin hotel OC and of course she’s a stripper lmao. I don’t really have any plans for her since I made her up on the spot while writing this chapter? But I think she’s kinda cool actually so we’ll see. 
> 
> As always, comments are much appreciated!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony goes on his first hit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very Angel-centric this chap. Don’t worry, Al will be back next time.
> 
> TW in the end notes

“That man’s a pedophile and a homosexual, so he was a moraless peice of shit before he decided to get one ‘a his buddies arrested. Should be an easy off — Anthony, you’ve been waiting on your first hit.” 

“Yes, pops,” Anthony said, perking up. Ari glanced over to him, offering him a small smile. 

“Good. This one should be easy enough that even an idiot like you can’t fuck it up too bad. You’ll have your folder by this afternoon, he should be iced before the end of the week.” It was already Thursday — Anthony wouldn’t have much time. His father sighed. “And take your brother with you, I suppose. Any questions go to him, not me. I’m a busy man.”

-=-=-=-

The face staring up at him from the folder was a familiar one, and Anthony wasn’t sure whether to wince or breathe a sigh of relief. Mr. Ricardo definitely wasn’t a homosexual or anything though — he had seen the man eyeing up his friend Connie too many times for that to be the case. Even Molly, the single time Anthony had brought her along, and he had almost killed the man then, a full year before his picture was in a brown folder for getting one of his associates arrested. The man was a frequent visitor to the One-Eyed Tiger, and Anthony’s mind was already churning with ideas. 

“Ya done, Tones?” Ari asked impatiently. He was sixteen now, and more grouchy than ever. “Lemme look it over.” 

“I know ‘im,” Anthony said, passing the folder over to his brother. “Mista Ricardo, from Connie’s club. She’s always complainin’ ‘bout him ‘cus she gotta take his money ev’n though he’s got rough hands an’ dirty nails. An’ he’s much too insistent ‘bout everything, ‘pparently. I know how ta gett’im.”

“Geez, ya girl Connie tells ya too much,” Ari said with a frown. “Don’t you talk like that in fronta pops, he’d break your nose.” 

Anthony laughed. “I ain’t stupid, Ari. Pops doesn’t even know I visit her still. Besides, Connie ain’t my gal, I got smiles ta keep me company.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ari told him. “I know all about your ‘smiles’ by now, you’re like obsessed with the guy or somethin’. Bit idiotic since ya still don’t know the fella’s name. Ya gotta plan or what? We gonna do anything?”

“I got some ideas~” Anthony sing-songed. “Again, I know this guy. He’s gonna be at the One-Eyed Tiger tomorrow night, so we can gett’im then, but I’ll need some shit first. Have ya met Connie yet?” 

“No,” Ari said, with increasing suspicion. “I haven’t. Why?” 

“Well it’s ‘bout time ya did, huh?” He broke off into a giggle. “I don’t think you’ll like her much, but I need ta borrow somma her shit for tomorrow. And then if you could hook me up wit’ someone who deals in poisons? I don’t wanna shoot up the club.”

“Figures  _ your _ first hit would be a poisoning,” Ari grumbled, “You’re loud as shit and love causin’ trouble so a’  _ course  _ you’re goin’ for something discreet your first time ‘round. Makes perfect sense.”

“Oh shut up, Ari,” Anthony said brushing past his brother on the way to the hallway. “Pops’ next hit’ll be on me if I fuck with his club, not ta mention what Connie’ll do ta me. Come on, let’s get outta here.”

-=-=-=-

_ I know what I want for my next birthday, smiles _

**Oh? You wouldn’t like to leave it a surprise this year?**

_ Nope! I’m tired of callin ya smiles all the time. Can ya tell me your name this year? _

**Not, perhaps, my favorite color? How many lives I’ve taken, maybe? I know you’re waiting on your first hit this year, little angel.**

_ I know your favorite color is red already. And yeah, I wanna know _

**Very well. For your thirteenth birthday you may have my name. I better have gotten you the best gift this year.**

_ No offense Smiles, but i don’t think you could ever beat Molly _

**Not until we meet :)**

_ Hm. Ominous. _

-=-=-=-

“Heya toots!” Connie called as soon as Anthony appeared in the doorway of the club, towing a reluctant Ari along. “Fancy seein’ ya here, don’tcha usually only come ‘round on weekends? And who’s this?”

Connie was a bit over twenty now, and still dancing at the same club. She had found her soulmate in one of the bartenders she worked with, Eva Cassidy, which had made arrangements easy for them both. Any anxieties she had previously had about her soulmate not accepting her job had been quickly washed away, to Anthony’s great delight for his friend. 

“Hi Connie! Here on business, so pops won’t question me back home.” Anthony jogged into the room, offering grins to a few of the other girls he recognized. “Anyways, I don’t think you’ve met my brother Ari?”

Ari nodded at her and held out a hand to shake. “‘lo, Miss Constance,” he said, only for Connie to look him up and down critically and keep her hands to herself. 

“There’s not much family resemblance, huh?” She told Anthony, who snickered. 

“I’ve been told it’s in the nose and bone structure from momma and the hairline from pops.” Anthony ignored Ari’s scowl, much to Connie’s amusement. 

She squinted at them both, tilted her head slightly to the right, and shrugged. “It helps that you two have essentially the same fringe, I suppose. Whatcha need?” 

“I do not know why we are here.” Ari ground out. “Nor do I know why I have been  _ insistently  _ brought here.” 

“Its ‘cus ya gotta follow me around so that way you can report to pops exactly how much of a failure I am,” Anthony chirped, patting him on the arm, comforting and mocking all at once. “You can just wait out here for now though, I need some girl time with Connie.” He strolled over to Connie, who laughed and rested her elbow on top of Angel’s head. 

“Yer not even a  _ girl, _ ” Ari called after him as the two walked off, frowned to himself, and stalked over to the empty bar. 

-=-=-=-

_ Smiles, do ya have anything to do tmrrw night? _

**I have a job, why?**

_ Ya mean like a hit? _

**No, honest work. Why, Anthony?**

_ I got a piece of work then, so warnings for make-up and possible blood. Is that ok? _

**My job does not involve my appearance, it’s alright. Make-up?**

_ Ya judgin’, smiles? _

**No, not at all. Best of luck, little angel. Don’t get caught.**

_ Ha! Me? Caught? Never~ _

-=-=-=-

There was a florist and herbalist shop just inside their family’s territory that didn’t have to pay anything in order to stay. Just having their business in the area was enough payment for the Ragno Family’s protection. If anyone was in need of a flower arrangement, a particular herbal tea or remedy, even just a particular plant, that was the place to go. 

Foxglove is a beautiful flower, not uncommon in flower arrangements, and thus not at all strange to find in any florist, really. Few have ever been willing to supply a buyer with fresh leaves, ground under a pestle and doused with denatured alcohol, but there were exceptions. According to the shop's helpful herbalist, the taste of foxglove — spicy, a little bitter — made it an excellent poison to hide in someone’s drink. 

“Perfect! I need enough to kill a man, an’ then a little extra.” Anthony flitted from display to display admiringly, making eyes at all the sample flower arrangements. “These are so pretty!”

“Only blue roses in all of New York,” the florist, a lady with long red hair, a British accent, and a perpetual smirk, bragged. “No one can figure out my secret.”

“Except for me, my dear,” the herbalist said, gloved hands carefully bottling Anthony’s order. He wiped the small glass vial down with a glass before giving it to Ari, who handed over the money obligingly. “Much thanks, young man.” 

“Yeah yeah, that’s why I hired you.” The florist waved a hand through the air and sauntered over. “Anyways, disclaimer, don’t use the poison we just sold you for murder, its medicinal digitalis for heart disease and not for whatever hit you’re working on. Good luck, don’t get caught, and don’t get us arrested.”

“Your assistance to the Ragno Family is appreciated as always,” Ari said formally, and Anthony snatched the foxglove out of his hand with a grin. 

“Uh huh, thanks!” 

-=-=-=-

_ How’s it look, smiles?  _

**Very beautiful, little angel. I look like quite the fetching lady at present.**

_ Yeah, that’s what I was goin for~ you really don’t mind?  _

**No. Besides, who am I to deny my lovely soulmate his business?**

_ Thank you! I’m gonna go ask Molly what she thinks, and then me an Ari are gonna head out.  _

**Best of luck, Anthony. Wear gloves :)**

_ I gotcha :) _

-=-=-=-

The only lights in the club were the white electric spotlights pointed at the stage, and the dimmer yellow behind the bar that let the resident mixologist actually do her job. That suited Anthony just fine though, as he snuck in through the back of the club and dodged the girls backstage who were bustling around and getting ready for their own performances. They helpfully told him if Mr. Gigante was nearby, and let him duck into changing rooms as necessary on his way towards the seating area. Frank Gigante wouldn’t appreciate one of his regular customers getting knocked off, after all, and he especially wouldn’t appreciate seeing a twelve year old boy dressed as one of his dancers in a worker-only area. Being friends with the girls really paid off. 

Anthony was easily the shortest one there, but his youth made him a tad more feminine, done up in Connie’s make-up and a chin-length wig the same white-blonde as his actual hair. He wore a slinky black and pink dress and clicky black girl’s shoes, which had been harder to find in his size than the dress. The only article Anthony wore that wasn’t in the latest fashion was a pair of silky pale pink gloves, which extended up past his elbows. Hidden in the palm of one hand was a soft latex packet, easily disposed off and filled with a pale green extract. He would have to be careful not to get it on any of his skin or clothing, but it was as discrete as he could make it. 

As expected, Ricardo was sitting alone on one side of the bar, nursing a drink with eyes fixated on the stage. Anthony slid onto the stool next to him and looked towards Eva, who was bartending for the night. 

“A mary pickford, if ya please?” He asked, just barely pitching his voice up. When he handed Eva the bills, the small packet was folded between them — Anthony didn’t have the skill or confidence for sleight of hand tricks. Instead, he folded his ankles delicately and rested his hands on the table, almost close enough for the older man to touch. 

Ricardo emptied his glass and looked Anthony up and down before turning to face the bar rather than the dancers. “Well hello there, little lady. Why ever are ya blessin’ a man like me with your presence?” 

“A refill, sir?” Eva interrupted, sliding Anthony’s cocktail over. She had gone light on the rum for him, and he nodded at her thankfully. 

“Sure,” Ricardo said absently, and she took his glass away. 

“Aren’tcha Mista Ricardo?” Anthony asked with a flutter of eyelashes and a playfully innocent smile. “I wouldn’t expect ta see someone like you all alone~ I thought ya might like some company.” 

“I feel honored.” Ricardo leaned in closer and scooted their bar stools nearer to each other. “I’m sure a beautiful young gal such as yerself could have whatever company ya wanted.” 

Their arms were touching now, and Anthony had to suppress a shudder of disgust, looking away instead. He hoped it came off as shy and flirtatious instead of him literally suppressing a grimace by imagining what Ari’s reaction to the scene would be. Anthony could almost picture his brother trying not to gag, and he giggled quietly. 

“I couldn’t letcha get lonely, Mista Ricardo,” Anthony murmured, taking another sip of his drink. Eva arrived with Ricardo’s gin, and he excited Anthony’s personal space in order to thank her and pay. It had been garnished with a sprig of rosemary to hide the green tint, and Ricardo sipped his drink appreciatively. 

“I’m sure I could better  _ appreciate your company _ elsewhere, my little lady,” Ricardo hummed. “Faint question though — how old are you, exactly?”

“Nineteen,” Anthony answered immediately, a showfully practiced answer. He made his eyes widen, and shoulders tense. 

Ricardo huffed out a laugh. “I’ll take your word for it, my girl~” he answered, and Angel made himself relax into his seat. 

“I have a back room we can go to, Mista Ricardo?” Anthony said, injecting his voice with hopeful inflection, and Ricardo downed the rest of his drink with a chuckle. Anthony hid a grin behind a softer smile as the remainder of the foxglove poison slid down his throat. 

By the time they reached the back room, where the dancers usually  _ entertained  _ clients, Ricardo was drunk and coughing, and red hives were breaking out across his face. Anthony handed the man the rest of his own drink, which was downed eagerly. Ari was there waiting, and he looked Anthony up and down with a grimace. 

“I’ll take ‘im outside while you take off that get-up. We’re goin’ home afta this, an’ pops won’t appreciate your little tricks, effective as they apparently were.” He knocked Ricardo in the chin, and the man’s lights went out. Anthony passed him over. 

“ You got it, Ari! Don’t shoot ‘im or anything, kay? I’m tryin’ ta keep Mista Gigante in the dark ‘bout this.” He waved as he left the room, looking both ways before stepping out. “I’ll be back in a bit, just gotta find Connie. She’s got my normal clothes in her bag.” 

-=-=-=-

**How did it go, little angel?**

_ Actually good! Ricardo was gross but I dunno what I expected _

**Congratulations, Anthony. And no blood, I see.**

_ Eh, poison. He’ll be dead soon, I’m pretty sure Ari just left him in some alleyway to rot. By the time he wakes up he’ll be beyond cure, apparently. _

**And how are you feeling mentally. You about to get some sleep?**

_ Less guilt than I expected. It went well, the guy was shitty, I dunno  _

**I’m proud of you. Good night, my dear.**

_ Ha, thanks. G’night smiles.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for (sorta) period-typical homophobia (not really), (a little bit of) underage drinking, and pedophilia (actual warning, ew :/) 
> 
> I’ve sort of sped up the affects of digitalis/foxglove poisoning here, it doesn’t actually act quite this fast. Also like, don’t poison people. Foxglove is a pretty common plant. Ricardo... sucks, and it was hard to get into the sort of headspace where I can write him without curling up into the fetal position and screaming, hence the slightly longer wait on this guy (not sure how I’m going to manage eventually having to write Valentino, on that note)....
> 
> Anyways, that’s me. Hope you enjoyed! Stay tuned for more Alastor because next chap is 1933, babey <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1933

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of went wacky crazy with this one, and this isn’t even all the stuff I wanted to include, so more 1933 next chapter most likely. 
> 
> Ik I put “Alastor-typical gore“ in the tags, but that’s especially prevalent this chapter

“ _ The Smiling Killer _ ,” somebody’s voice growled, and the barking and howling of dogs echoed through the trees. Alastor had never liked dogs, and he liked them far less now, when the sun wasn’t yet up and he could hardly see anything. “So clever, your little signature, your little blood red smile carved into the back of my soulmate. Never thought it would lead me right to you, did you? DID YOU!?”

The woman was yelling now, and though he didn’t recognize her voice, Alastor knew how she’d be — vengeful, terrified, and with a black smile tattooed into the middle of her back. The Smiling Killer always had the same killing stroke, and there had to be at least fifty mateless souls wandering around New Orleans with the same deathmark by now. It was a wonder none of them had come after him sooner. 

Alastor called on the Loa’s power, on the gifts that his patron had given to him. He flung out his hand towards her with a sharp grin, feeling the prickle of magic in the scars on his wrist, the ones from the first deal he had made. 

And then the dogs reached him. 

He clenched his fingers into a fist, crying out as jaws closed around his calf and snapping his mouth shut a moment too late. No point to it though — the dogs were making enough noise for them both. Alastor fell backwards, barely managed to catch himself before the back of his head slammed into the earth, and more teeth sank into his shoulder. 

The pain was worse than a bullet, worse than a knife, worse than anything he had ever experienced and almost as bad as what he had inflicted upon other people. The woman finally reached them to look down at him passionlessly. She had dark hair and piercing eyes, and she held a pistol in one hand and a whistle in the other. Dogs swarmed harmlessly around her ankles. 

“Your soulmate?” She asked him, raising an eyebrow. 

“Alive,” Alastor wheezed out. “Anthony—”

“Then I shall leave for him a mercy you did not leave for me.” The woman took her gun, cocked it, pointed it directly at Alastor’s eye, and pulled the trigger. 

-=-=-=-

**It’s Alastor**

_ No “happy birthday, little angel” this year? _

**Happy birthday, little angel :)**

_ Ha! Alastor huh? Your momma was pretentious as hell _

**Alastor means “tormentor” and “ one who suffers from divine vengeance”, so I would actually say that my mother was quite straightforward**

_ You suffer from divine vengeance, huh?  _

**Tune in next year for more obscure references to my past**

_ That wasn’t an answer, but hell yeah!  _

-=-=-=-

Anthony snapped awake on the morning of his fourteenth birthday, the sun just barely peeking over the horizon. Something was wrong. He didn’t know — there was just something off — he…. his head hurt. There was an ache in one of his eyes, not quite a migraine, but present. What had woken him up? 

His arms were empty and clean, but it was so early that even smiles — no,  _ Alastor _ — might not have been awake yet. Anthony stumbled blearily over to the mirror, and his breath caught. 

There were huge red bite marks across his neck and shoulders, sunk into his skin like ink. Blood was spattered across his collarbones like wine across a pressed white shirt, and Anthony trailed his fingers across the marks in shock. 

About to be thankful that at least the marks hadn’t turned black, Anthony looked up at his reflection and looked himself in the face. His right eye widened in shock, but his left eye — his left eye was a mess of red, across his face to his ear and below his cheekbone, and the sclera was pitch black. Pitch black, with the distinct ache of a deathmark. 

He didn’t realize he was crying until a sob wracked his shoulders and wrenched itself out of his mouth, breaking Anthony’s eye-contact with his reflection. 

-=-=-=-

_ Hey Al, can ya stop calling me “little angel” from now on?  _

**Whyever would I do that, my dearest Anthony?**

_ Cus it’s not like I’m that little anymore— I’m turning fourteen in less than two months. And I’m not angelic at all, I’ve killed six people by now.  _

**Angels burned down the twin cities of Sodom and Gomorrah and everyone in them, for less sin that your hits have done. And that’s far more than six, my lovely angel of vengeance.**

_ Oh… yeah, I suppose so. But even you can’t argue that I’m little anymore, I’m already taller than Ari, and he’s almost eighteen.  _

**I suppose so. Just angel then?**

_ Ugh, I guess if you want to that bad _

**You will always be an Angel to me, mon ange :)**

_ Haha. And you’ll always be the fuckin devil that you are, smiles.  _

-=-=-=-

Alastor blinked open his eyes, not expecting to ever do so again. The void was dark and expansive, stretching out to distances unknown, and heights even more unknown. There was a cool breeze that swept around him, but Alastor wasn’t cold at all, despite lacking clothing. Though everything was dark, he could still see — his skin was pale grey, his hair longer that it had been in life, and now blood red with black ends. He could hear the wind better than he had ever heard anything. 

“Oh good, I caught you,” came a familiar voice from his left, standing just out of Alastor’s line of sight. He turned to see Met Kalfu, in person for the first time since he was twenty and sitting on the ground at a crossroads. “You won’t be here for long. I’ve been waiting for you.” 

“Not the Baron?” Alastor asked mildly. “Where am I?” 

“The dark, the void, the abyss,” Kalfu said, looking around. “The In-Between, Everywhere and Nowhere. What does it matter? You’re dead.” 

“I had figured,” he replied. “Still, it seems as if I am conscious despite that, so where I am about to spend eternity is of some importance to me.” 

Met Kalfu laughed loudly, the sound racing into the darkness as if it expected to echo, and instead vanished upon meeting nothing to echo against. “No no, my boy.  _ This _ is not where you will spend eternity. Hell awaits you, I simply pulled you out of your fall for a few moments of your time. I have some things for you, after all.” 

Hell. Of course. Alastor had expected nothing less. “Well then, what are they? I ought to be on my way to eternal punishment, shouldn’t I?” 

“So eager.” The loa tutted, drawing closer. “Very well, we can make this quick.” Met Kalfu prodded him in the center of his forehead, and Alastor felt a burning pain strike him there. Red lines dragged themselves down his arms like scratch marks, five on each one, and Anthony flew into his mind. 

The finger withdrew and the pain lessened, bleeding into the rest of Alastor’s body. He sighed. 

“I’ve granted you a soul connection again, since you’ve been so generous with your little presents over the past decade or two,” Kalfu said. “The other denizens of hell don’t exactly have soulmates though, so you may want to be careful with that one.”

“A gift and a curse. Rather typical of you.” 

“You know me — so predictable,” he said. “I’m very generous to those in my favour, as you are well aware. You would do well to remain in my favour, even after death.”

“Thank you. I will keep that in mind.” Alastor took a cautious step back from the grinning loa. Ha! As if he could forget it. 

“One last tip for you, before I let you tumble the rest of your way down into eternal damnation.” Met Kalfu waved a nonchalant hand through the air. “Who you were in life  _ does _ impact who you will be, so if you're half decent at wielding your power, I believe you might do quite well for yourself down there. You have the blood and favour of a loa on your side, after all.” 

Kalfu stepped forward, back into Alastor’s space, and pressed Alastor’s old pen into his hand. “Ah, and before I forget,” he said before stepping back again.

And with that, Alastor fell through the floor of the abyss, into heat and pain and searing light. 

-=-=-=-

_ How old are ya anyways, Al?  _

**Al?**

_ Short for Alastor. Can I call you that?  _

**I don’t see why not.**

_ Kay! So how old are you? You’re always so insistent about this 18 thing _

**Dangerous question,** ~~**litt** ~~ **angel. Older than you.**

_ Well duh, I ain’t that stupid. You’ve had perfect spelling and all since I was six, at least. Ya gotta be at least Ari’s age. _

**How old is your brother, again?**

_ Going on 18 in like, a few months _

**Then you’re right — and then some. And that is all you’re getting until you’re 18.**

_ U g h, what harm could it do anyways?  _

_ Ya think you’re too old for me huh? You’re wrong. You’re perfect. _

_ Talk to you tomorrow, smiles _

-=-=-=-

Anthony dressed down, baring the blocks of red on his shoulder, neck, and calf to the air. His sleeves were rolled up to show off the bleeding scratches on his arms, and for the first time in years, he glanced at his gloves before leaving the room and didn’t take a pair with him. 

“Gimme a shootout,” he opened, strolling into his father’s office, his face tight. “Nothin’ with any discretion. Any deals ya need ta keep from happenin’, a brawl even. I need to let out some steam.”

Henry Ragno took one look at his son’s face and nodded assent. Maybe it was the glare that he had tried to train into the boy for years, maybe just the sight of his face splattered with blood and one eye pitch black, but most likely a combination of the two. He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out an envelope, handing it to Anthony. “Drug base in Brooklyn, warehouse facing Manhattan — Castellamarese is gonna be on guard, so watch out. Only cops in the area are already either ours or their’s, so you don’t need to be quiet. Take anyone as back-up, but take someone — you ain’t goin’ out there to die, I still got work for you. Got it, boy?”

He nodded. “I’m takin’ Ari, leavin’ as soon as I can get him with me. Don’t expect me home ‘till tonight, I’m goin’ out after.”

“Send your brother back before you go out. You can have the night off for your birthday, but be back in the morning ready to work,” his father assented. “Your guns are by the door.”

With the envelope clutched tightly in his hand, Anthony stalked back out of the room and down the hallway, banging on Ari’s door. “Ari! Get out here right now or so help me, I’m goin’ out an’ you’re comin’ too.” As he continued to bang on the wood, he heard a shuffling inside and a muffled yell. 

“Fuckin geez Tony, what’s your  _ problem _ ,” Ari ground out, opening the door with his shirt only half buttoned. His eyes caught on Anthony’s face, and he clenched his jaw. “Your smiles better’ve fucked up whatever went after him, or else you’re gonna do worse than he ever would’ve,” he said finally, and closed the door behind him. “Whatcha got?” 

Anthony nearly threw the envelope at him, and Ari opened it with the flick of a knife. “Drug raid in Brooklyn, we’re offense. No cops. Guns, no explosives or we’ll damage the goods. Let’s fuckin’ go.” 

“Calm your shit, have ya even had breakfast yet? If you think I’m lettin’ ya go guns blazin without a lick a’ breakfast ya just as stupid as pops say ya are.” Ari’s eyes scanned the document at lightning speed. “Castellamarese, cocaine, got an address. Alright, I’m driving so we’re leavin’ this house at my speed, an’ I say breakfast ‘cus I ain’t a fuckin’ idiot. Downstairs.” 

-=-=-=-

**So, what family tradition is coming for you this year?**

_ Whaddya mean, smiles?  _

**Guns at 7, corpse at 9, hit at 12. You’re due.**

_ Haha, can’t believe ya remember. Nothin like that this year, at least that I know of. I don’t think Ari did anything at 14.  _

**Ah, I see. Well, happy early birthday, in that case, angel.**

_ Hmm, thinkin of, I still don’t know when  _ your _ birthday is. So, ya know. Happy early/late birthday to you too.  _

**Haha! Much appreciated :)**

_ :) _

-=-=-=-

Alastor arrived in hell completely naked in the restroom of a speakeasy — not exactly ideal, but he could manage. Far less pleasant was the fact that he could hear exactly what was happening in the stall next to him, what with the brand new red and black ears that had grown on top of his head. Which is to say,  _ somebody _ was masturbating in the next stall over, and they weren’t doing so very quietly. This place really was a place of personal torment, wasn’t it. 

There was a quiet buzz of static around him, which was almost like another sense. He could sense things around him, in a way, and it seemed to follow his thoughts, switching through snippets of words and music. It obeyed him, which was nice, and kept quiet as he unlocked the door and opened it, hoping to leave the establishment discreetly and acquire some clothing before interacting with anyone at all. 

No such luck, of course, as the hinges squeaked loudly when they turned, and there was a notable pause in the activities nearby. Alastor let out a crackle-filled sigh, stepped out of the stall, and turned to the door next to him expectantly. Sure enough, the door opened just as creakily, and Alastor lunged forward with a growl, static filling the air as claws extended from his fingers and pierced into the demon’s flesh. 

For it was definitely a demon that opened the door, with horns, pale blue skin, and strangely, no visible genitalia. Their blood was as red as anything though, and Alastor tore through it’s flesh easily, ripping through muscles and tendons and clawing deep gashes into white bone. The demon’s scream cut off quickly, and soon Alastor stood alone in the bloody remains, the floor and his skin a mess of blood. In a flash, he remembered the soul bond, and nearly grimaced at the sight of himself in the bathroom’s mirrors, catching his expression at the last second. 

The rush of power that the kill gave him though — and wasn’t that a fun feature — let Alastor clean himself off with a wave of his hand, and summon his old radio outfit with some minor adjustments as well. Now in bright red, for one, to match the color of his microphone. And with tattered edges because of course — this was hell, and the symbolism was too good not to keep. 

And with that, he was running low again, which was interesting. Alastor was going to have to cause some real carnage in Hell in order to do anything significant, wasn’t he. Or perhaps it was based on pre-existing magical power, and the demon he had just beaten was a scrub. 

No matter. He was planning on making some real noise anyways, build a reputation and maybe a landmark or two. All the easier for his angel to find him when Anthony inevitably arrived as well. 

-=-=-=-

In the aftermath, Anthony sat heavily down onto the bloodied floor with a grunt. Ari leaned on a stack of crates next to him, equally tired but not letting the gun fall out of his hands. 

“God Tony, you’re a madman,” he groaned. “We shouldn’t have won that fight.”

“But we did~” Anthony sing-songed, staring at the blood coating his fingers. It was so thick in places that it almost looked like it had bled into his skin, but he knew it would come off if he scrubbed at it hard enough. Unfortunately. “Go home, anyways. Get somma pops’ folks to come over, I’ll guard the joint. Maybe try some of the merch.”

Ari stood up straight with a sigh. “If you’re the one hooked on this shit in a few years an’ tryin’ ta buy it from us, all the blame’s on you. The soldiers will be here soon, pops has people nearby so don’t be too fucked up once they get here.” 

“Aww, don’t blame me, Ari. Smiles is tha fucker that got ‘imself killed.” The coke really was looking more and more tempting though. A shot of happiness straight to the brain, or even just to pass out… Anthony didn’t know what he was doing, but he reached for the crates anyways. A tiny bit came off on his finger, and he wiped the, apparently bitter, white residue off on his tongue curiously. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I got this one out pretty quickly I feel. Anyways, Alastor’s dead now, Angel’s going to find out that this blood ain’t gonna wash out any time soon, and tune in next chapter for a murder spree. Al’s gotta get his power from somewhere ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1933 part 2– Newspapers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read all your lovely bribes, and I appreciate them lots, so here is another chapter as promised <3 
> 
> CW for drugs and off-screen underage sex bc Angel is Like That. Realized I put “no underage I promise” in the tags and got rid of that cus... yeah, sorry. But no Radiodust until Anthony’s at least 18

High-Anthony was a lot more into getting what he wanted than sober-Anthony, apparently. It wasn’t that he was, you know, out of his mind or anything — in fact he felt more  _ in his mind _ than he had for the past few years. That part, at least, was due to the sudden rush of euphoria directly into his brain, his tongue numb and his mind buzzing. There was almost a timer in his head, counting down the minutes before the pleasure subsided, despite the fact that he had never been high before. 

With a surprisingly clear mind — though he didn’t know exactly why he was surprised — Anthony collected some of the white power into a scrap of brown paper and pocketed it before leaving the warehouse’s premises. Ari would be back soon, anyways. 

-=-=-=-

Alastor’s black pen had turned out to be in his coat pocket, which — he wasn’t sure how it had gotten there, seeing as he had only just summoned those clothes, and he was quite certain he had dropped it when the floor of the abyss had vanished beneath his feet. In the bathroom’s mirrors he could see his new appearance as he carefully washed his hands before putting his new gloves on. Apparently, he now had small black antlers, which felt almost numb when he rubbed a finger over them curiously, red eyes that he could make glow if he focused, and his dark skin had paled to a warm-toned grey. 

Not all of the blood washed off of his hands, some of it stained into his skin like a soulmate mark, but Alastor couldn’t tell if it was actually Anthony or if his skin just… worked like that now. Either way, he uncapped his pen and wrote a few words on the back of his hand —  **don’t grieve for me, my angel. The opportunities of Hell await me.** — and pocketed it again. While he waited for Anthony to respond, Alastor walked confidently into the main room of the bar. 

The rest of the speakeasy was crowded, almost overly so. It was clear that this was no high-class establishment, though Alastor couldn’t think of a single reason why prohibition would be present in Hell as well. In addition, all of the demons present were either completely nude, most of them once again lacking visible genitalia, or were dressed down in cheap, casual clothes. This made Alastor stand out like a sore thumb among the common rabble, but he didn’t care much. It was a simple and elegant way of making an impression, after all. 

He checked the prices, his own reserves of power, and mentally shrugged. With a discreet twist of his wrist, a few bills from the cash register appeared in his pocket, neatly folded, and Alastor walked up to the bartender with a grin. 

“Hello, whiskey old-fashioned if you please?” Alastor placed one hand on the bar, leaned forward and brought a few bills forward. They were snatched out of his hand with frown, and a mixing glass appeared from under the counter. A few moments later, his cocktail was slid over to him and he picked it up in one gloved hand. “Much appreciated.” 

“Who’re you?” One of the other patrons — a fox-adjacent demon seated nearby — asked him. “Haven’t seen you ‘round here before.” 

“Alastor, it’s a pleasure,” he replied, leaning back against the counter almost lazily. “Yes, I’m rather new in the area — I like to have a drink and a look around before I go out and get involved. Do you know the local news?” 

The fox-demon sighed, almost a groan. “Turf wars in the area. Overlord Olivier’s had this territory for decades, a real asshole of an Overlord but what can you do about it? He’s in the process of fucking up some mortal Overlord that decided to try their luck, whole devastation outside is ‘cus he likes to take it slow with the whole torture-humiliation thing.”

“Hmm, seems like a real bastard of a man,” Alastor hummed, considering. There was no way he could take the guy yet, but maybe soon… 

“Ha! He’s no man.” the fox-demon laughed bitterly. “He’s hellborn, been here almost since the beginning. It’s why he’s so powerful, and also probably why he’s such a bastard. If yer lookin’ to get involved, best of luck — and if you manage to beat him, you’ll have the gratitude of most’a the folks here.”

“Not that you’ll be able to, of course,” the bartender said, coming up behind him. “Powerful overlords have tried and failed, and you’re brand new. I have to clean that bathroom, you know.”

“Oh, apologies,” Alastor said with a shrug. “And you don’t know that. I just might. Anything else coming up that I ought to know about?” 

The fox-demon was gaping at him. “You?  _ You’re _ new here? But—” Alastor grinned sharply at him, tilting his head. “You don’t… look it. And that’s a compliment,” he hurriedly corrected. “Look. There’s a party at the end of the week — real formal-like, hellborn overlords  _ only _ invited, and only press allowed in the vicinity. That’s — if you lose, you don’t know me, but… whatever. Big news.” 

“Perfect,” Alastor said, downed the rest of his drink, and set the empty glass back on the bar. “And I don’t know you anyways, so our little arrangement works out. 

-=-=-=-

Anthony dragged his fingers lazily through the mess of dried jizz on his stomach. He was ecstatic — orgasm had never felt so good as it did while high, especially with another person thrown in the mix. 

Said other person — some other teenager with a black necklace of a deathmark around his throat — tossed him a crinkled plastic bag with three colorful pills inside. “Make ‘em last, that’s the last of ‘em that I got. And ya betta hide those well, they’re in high fuckin’ demand ‘round here. You’re lucky you’re such a good lay, or I’d fuckin’ keep ‘em. Angel, huh?”

Making himself upright enough to catch the pills, Anthony nodded. He didn’t know why he had given his name out as Angel, but it had seemed right, for some reason. “That’s me,” he answered. He was coming down again and he could feel the hunger for more emerging, almost as if he was literally starving, but Anthony suppressed the urge. Ari was right — he didn’t want to be another junkie on the street begging powder from his pops. 

“Tsk,” the other boy said, throwing on clothing. “Angel dust for the Angel. Fitting. See ya later, maybe.” And with that, he was gone. 

With a groan, Anthony got himself out of the bed and into the cheap hotel’s shower. It was dirty and smelled kind of moldy, but the water wasn’t too cold, and it was enough of a knock over the head that he was alert again. He could just take another shower once he got home, anyways. Anthony’s eye throbbed, and he raised his hand to rub at it with a groan, but paused. 

Letters were on the back of his hand that weren’t there this morning. Familiar black ink, in familiar handwriting. Handwriting Anthony had thought he would never see again, once the last remains of Alastor’s notes had disappeared from his skin. 

Um???? What the fuck? Alastor was— hadn’t he— it was impossible, it must have been written before his death, but— it hadn’t— Anthony hadn’t seen it that morning it couldn’t have been— no he couldn’t have could he have Anthony didn’t know—

His eye ached and Anthony pressed on it with the heel of his palm, falling back against the slippery wall of the shower. The cold shock of tile sent him jerking forward, almost to his own death against the stone floor. He couldn’t think straight, the sensation of coming down from a high clouding his mind.

Time simultaneously happened double time and in slow motion, and eventually Anthony made it out of the shower and back into his clothes. The bag containing his new PCP pills was still sitting on the covers, and he pocketed it with a small smile. His mind still felt foggy, the newly-familiar hunger an ominous presence in the back of his head, but he would call that a success, at the very least. 

Making his way out of the shoody hotel, Anthony considered having the receptionist phone home to have Ari or someone come and pick him up. It was late though, and he doubted anyone would appreciate a call while they were getting ready for bed, let alone his pops. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking. Forty minutes didn’t sound too bad, and the fresh air would do his pounding head some good. 

-=-=-=-

There was no shortage of demons in Hell, and his power was an exponential sort of thing, apparently. His last bit of magic gave him a very nice, very sharp knife, which was a much more elegant and preferable way to kill than, say, claws and teeth. And the denizens of Hell were simply idiots. Alastor could stand a little ways in an alleyway, knife hardly hidden behind his back, and somebody would approach him in minutes, for one reason or another. Perhaps they figured no killer would just stand in an alleyway and wait for their prey to approach them first.

Or maybe, as Alastor soon discovered, they were simply not afraid of death. After all, a slit throat simply didn’t seem to stay, not giving him any burst of power but instead just healing in a matter of minutes. It was only when Alastor used his claws and so on that a death would actually  _ take _ — he would have to find a way around that soon, he had no intention of manifesting claws every time he wanted to kill anything permanently. It was so… brutish. 

Another body or two fell at his feet, and Alastor moved on, walking casually through the streets. There was a newspaper stand at the street corner, and he stopped by to glance at the headlines. An address for Olivier’s party — perfect. 

“Excuse me, do you know how exactly I might find this address?” Alastor asked the vendor casually. 

“Why do you want to know?” The vendor asked. “It states very clearly that it’s hellborn and press only, and you don’t look like you’ve got an invitation.” 

“Oh, I’m a reporter,” he said, smoothly summoning his microphone and leaning against it. “Radio host from out of town — I’m not exactly familiar with the area. Might you give me some directions? I’d like to know where the venue is before the day of the event, obviously.” 

“Tsk. Down two streets, take a left, then just keep going. Huge Victorian looking mansion, a shit ton of guards — you can’t miss it.” The vendor waved a hand through the air. “Now scram if you aren’t gonna buy anything.” 

“Of course, of course.” Alastor vanished his microphone and walked away, one hand hidden inside his long coat, and gripping a slightly crinkled newspaper. 

-=-=-=-

_ Smiles, what the FUCK _

_ Also I got blood everywhere this morning cus I didn’t wear gloves cus I thought you DIED _

_??? Are you dead?? Alastor I’m serious _

**I am, apparently, quite dead. And, additionally, currently in Hell.**

_ What are you talking about? Nobody’s ever had a soulbond after their mate died before.  _

**A gift from my patron — you’re right, soulbonds aren’t supposed to work down here. I did die though, shot last night**

_ In the eye, I know. I gotta deathmark now, which is… weird. I thought you were gone.  _

**Yes… my apologies, angel, that I wasn’t able to contact you sooner.**

_ It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting you to contact me at all. Should I… join you, or? _

**Absolutely not. This isn’t somewhere you want to be sooner than necessary.**

_ Yeah, I guess I’ll get there eventually huh? So what is… Hell like? _

**So far? Not much worse than any place filled with despicable people — though it seems that humans become inhuman “demons” upon death? I haven’t been here for long.**

_ Ya better keep me updated, Al. I need all the deets before I end up down there.  _

**Of course, my angel**

-=-=-=-

There was a newspaper on the dining table when Anthony got home, and he glanced at it absently as he walked past. Then the headline registered in his head and he stopped mid-step before whipping around. 

**_Smiling Killer Of New Orleans Found Dead In The Bayou_ **

_ The serial killer that has been terrorizing the city of New Orleans for over eleven years now was found, just last night, in the wetlands outside of town. Alastor Leblanc, now revealed to be the infamous Smiling Killer, was discovered covered in bite marks and shot in the head, body mutilated in the same way he had mutilated so many of his nearly-100 victims. This gruesome death marks the end of a dark time in New Orleans, and many people rejoice as their lives return to relative safety after about 12 years.  _

_ Read about the life and death of Alastor Leblanc on page 3 _

Anthony traced a finger over the name  _ Alastor Leblanc _ with a sigh, bringing his other hand to his eye. Here was all the information about his soulmate that had never been revealed to him, little snippets only revealed once a year, on his birthday. He hesitantly took his finger away, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked off towards the stairs. 

Then on second thought, he turned around, grabbed the newspaper, and went up to his room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kay, hope you enjoyed!! Anthony’s a mafia kid, he’ll take what info he can get, especially if he’s been wondering about it for literal years. 
> 
> Next chapter: Alastor’s takeover in Hell. We’re switching who’s getting the bulk of the perspective y’all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alastor’s debut (kind of)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vaggie: Seemingly overnight, he began to topple overlords who had been dominant for centuries  
> Me: ehhh, I’ll give it a week
> 
> I really went kind of wacky crazy with this one, so it’s a touch longer than usual. Enjoy! :) 
> 
> CW: for fight scenes and murder, ofc

**Anthony, we ought to have some words about the fact that my torso is currently largely** **_white_ **

_ FUCK _

**Yes, that’s precisely it**

_ Listen Al, I thought you were dead, so, I dunno. Don’t judge my choices.  _

**I hope you are aware that you are very young, angel**

_ I fuckin k n o w that. That’s why I ain’t tellin nobody. You weren’t supposed to find out you were supposed to be dead. I thought you were dead, okay. Dead people don’t fuckin get angry at you so i thought it wouldn’t matter.  _

**Oh. Oh no, little angel, I’m not angry**

_ Don’t call me that. _

_...you’re not? But you’re my soulmate, aren’t you mad that I cheated on you or whatever? _

**Angel. I don’t control what you do with your body, nor do I wish to. Who you lay with is of no concern to me, and I have no wish to tie you to an old dead man you have never even met. I was simply… concerned.**

_ Bout what? I’m not a gal, it ain’t like I can get pregnant or some shit. _

**But there are diseases one can contract, people like to take advantage of those younger than them, and so on.**

_ VDs, I know. I’ve seen the posters and shit. Fine, yeah, I’ll be careful and shit. You’re… really okay with it?  _

**Go talk to your friend Connie first, and then I will. Later, angel — quite out of room.**

_ Bye :) _

-=-=-=-

Out and about, Olivier almost could have passed for a human, if not for the curled white horns he wore on his head like a crown, the things standing out against his long black hair and dark skin. At least when out in public, Olivier dressed in long black and gold robes with impractically wide sleeves, and his hair was braided and looped intricately down his back, interspersed with beads and gold thread. 

It was all rather pretentious, if you asked Alastor, who preferred a suit and some amount of practicality, but still overdressed for every occasion. He took a guess that Olivier would be even more dressed up at the party, that the overlord wouldn’t mind his movement being impeded while around people he was sure wouldn’t attack him, and left. No use hanging around, and he didn’t want to be recognized as having been hanging around Olivier too early. 

There were five or so days until the party, and what Alastor had decided would be his debut. What — you thought he was going to stop doing radio just because he was dead? Of course not. Au contraire, he would make the show of the decade, a massacre of power on a scale large enough to make an impression, making a vacuum that he would proceed to fill. And all of it broadcasted live. 

-=-=-=-

**There’s other beings here than just the dead. To my understanding, “hellborn demons” were never human + are generally more powerful/evil. “Sinners/demons” are the dead. Then there are hellhounds, imps, and some other species that were born here, but are not “demons”.**

_ Oh, okay. So is that like the power hierarchy? Hellborn demons at the top, sinners underneath, and imps etc at the bottom?  _

**No, it’s more complex than that. Sinners vary enormously, and it’s based on what you did in life. Those who did worse deeds are more powerful down here.**

_ So you’re really fuckin’ strong then, huh? With your 100 or so kills, or whatever?  _

**… how do you know that**

_ I dunno if you know this smiles, but “Alastor Leblanc” is something of a household name at this point. Newspapers exist, you know, and the smiling killer has been somewhat well-known for ages.  _

**Ah. My… apologies for not telling you sooner, but yes. More than 100, I only marked about 1 in 3 kills with the smile.**

_ Ha! You told me enough that I recognized it was you in the headlines, at least. That would put you at like, 300?  _

**Gotta keep meat on the table during the depression somehow.**

-=-=-=-

Over the next few days, Alastor prepared for the party at the end of the week. He, of course, did this by using as little power as possible, paying his patron back for allowing him contact with Anthony, and spending his days hunting. Really hunting. Hunting like going out into the woods outside of the city, the woods that looked almost like the bayou where he had grown up, and completely shifting into a demon of black claws and wicked fangs. The monsters in the forest were much more powerful than the squabble of the city, and seemingly less sentient as well. That suited Alastor well, and he had a swell time chasing his prey through the forest before falling upon it and tearing it apart and devouring it. 

The seemingly endless empty well inside of him began to fill up, and it didn’t feel like it would reach the capping point anytime soon. 

While he was hunting one afternoon, Alastor accidentally ripped out a fang in a clash, and the vaguely wolf-shaped creature disappeared into the trees. It would grow back in without any trouble within the hour, but Alastor stopped and returned to a more humanoid form. The magic that had repelled any blood from his skin fell off, suddenly several sizes too large, but he ignored it. Instead, he picked the sharp tooth up from the ground, the thing a little over six inches long and about so thick that if he wrapped his thumb and pointer finger around the base, they would just slightly overlap. 

Considering, he returned to the city just inside Olivier’s territory and, after some searching, found a good and rather expensive knife artisan. Money, thankfully, wasn’t a problem, since his shadow had very helpfully gone and fetched a very elegant gold card for him, and the artisan was more than happy to take Olivier’s stolen money, as well as the opportunity to work with a new material. 

As far as Alastor could tell, the demon had been crafting knives for centuries, and their blades had gone out and killed hundreds of thousands for people with their permission. It was enough to land them in the pit, but they were happy enough to continue working for mass murderers. They didn’t appreciate the 70% cut of their profit that Olivier took, and was pleased to hear Alastor’s plans of taking over. The knife was beautiful, elegant and black with a shiny red handle. 

Alastor spent the last two days before his debut in the city, did a touch more hunting just to get used to his new blade — which was quite literally an extension of himself — but otherwise relaxed. No use wearing himself out before the big day. 

-=-=-=-

_ Ya know you ain’t  _ **_that_ ** _ old, right?  _

**What do you mean?**

_ 19 years ain’t that bad. I know folks who’re happy together, even though they’re all hella old and not soulmates besides. Momma’s parents are 60 and 80 and they’re still in love.  _

**Angel, what are you talking about.**

_ Besides, it’s not like you’re aging anymore, you’re dead. By the time I’m down there too, we’ll be about the same age _

**My dear,** **_first_ ** **of all, I would hope that you are rather older than me by the time you are here. Secondly, what even brought this up?**

_ I dunno, something you said earlier really stuck in my mind. Something like “I don’t wanna tie you to an old dead man you never even met before”.  _

**I don’t. You shouldn’t limit yourself in life just because our soulbond remains after death.**

_ No Al, that’s not what I mean. You’re always so annoyin thinking you’re too old for me, too bloodthirsty, too murderous, too dead, whatever. The whole point of soulmates is that we’re  _ **_perfect_ ** _ for each other, dumbass, so quit it with your self-deprecating bullshit.  _

**My angel, I do not believe you understand** **_just_ ** **how young you seem to me. But very well — I suppose you** **_will_ ** **not any time soon, so I’ll keep it to myself.**

_ Tsk. Ya better.  _

-=-=-=-

The mansion was already swarming with press when Alastor arrived, newspaper reporters hoping to grab an interview, recorders in hand, and others lugging cumbersome camera equipment. With only his microphone in hand and dressed nearly well enough to be a guest, Alastor once again stood out in the crowd. He used the shadows on the floor to weave in between the other demons until he was at the front, waiting for the overlords to arrive like everyone else. His knife was vanished into the ether beside his right hand, ready to summon at a moment’s notice, and his microphone was gripped tightly in his left. It was nearly time. 

Strangely colorful limousines began to pull up in front of the building, and with a loud click that could be heard even over the clamor of the crowd, the wooden doors to the mansion swung open. The crowd surged forward, Alastor hidden and carried with it, as Olivier stepped out to greet the first guests. 

Even more so than usual, Olivier’s long hair done up in intricate loops and braids — this time pinned and tied and beaded into place at the back of his head rather than one long braid down his back like it had been the last time Alastor saw him. His almost pearlescent white ram horns glittered with gold and jeweled beads. Perhaps Alastor would mount them onto a wooden stand or something later — he wasn’t usually the type to take trophies, but they would look quite nice above a mantle. 

The other overlords were also not exactly dressed how Alastor would have expected, their clothes the definition of impractical high fashion. One stepped out of his sedan with a crown of golden leaves in his dark curls, a long wine red toga with intricate embroidery almost trailing behind him. A woman with powdered hair piled almost a foot high on top of her head, said pile decorated with flowers and (seemingly) dead taxidermied birds. Her intensely ruffled blue skirts were nearly too wide to fit through the front door, though she had no problem sliding sideways out of her car. 

It was something of a wait outside before it was time for Alastor to go in, but though he bored quickly by nature, there was still valuable information to be gained. Which demons carried weapons with them (as extravagant and unnecessarily bejeweled as those weapons might be) and which carried themselves as if they did so. It was no use forgetting that these were more than likely powerful magic users, after all, and Alastor had to remember that. 

One guest particularly caught his eye. A man with blond hair and chalk white skin, wearing a white suit not otherwise dissimilar Alastor’s own, as well as a tall white and red top hat with a snake wrapped around the brim. His smile was sharp, both literally and figuratively, and his yellow eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as they fell on Olivier. Even more curious, he was welcomed as “King Lucifer” — and neither the name nor title was lost on Alastor. A potential ally, he supposed. It was good to keep in mind. 

Finally, the doors shut, and the crowd quickly began to disperse. Alastor stepped into his own shadow and stayed there, taking himself into the building. 

-=-=-=-

_ So what have you been getting up to, smiles? Weren’t you a radio personality or something? I gotta go look for recordings of your shows or something.  _

**Oh, this and that. I have no plans to quit radio just because I died, so I’m working on that first.**

_ Not gonna be some big-name politician in Hell? The ferocious serial killer is gonna settle for journalism? _

**I wouldn’t say that. Who says I can’t be both? Gotta make enough of a name for myself that you can find me.**

_ Awww, sweet of ya. So when’s yer first show gonna be?  _

**Tonight, hopefully. Wish me luck, haha! :)**

_ Haha. Best a’ luck, Al, but I doubt ya need it :) _

-=-=-=-

Being a shadow was unusual. It was a bit like being back in the Abyss again (The Dark, the Void, The In-Between, Everywhere and Nowhere, so on and so forth), only he could see the outside as well, like a flat sheet in front of him that he was unable to turn away from. Not unlike being trapped between a wall and a glass pane, in the darkness and unable to move forward or backwards, but the outside still visible through the glass. 

The overlords had settled in already, eating and drinking, and talking to one another. They were seated in a sort of arch, the center empty so that everyone could see everyone else, and Olivier seated at the crown of the arch with two female “attendants” (more than likely concubines, feminine entertainers, or some other such thing). Lucifer was, notably, not at Olivier’s table, nor at his right hand, but rather several seats down the line and looking pissed about it. Perfect. 

Alastor returned to the outside, manifesting as a shadow on the door in order to avoid guards, carefully mapping the inside of the room in his mind. The door was at the open bottom of the arch, perfect for a dramatic entrance. 

With an explosive burst of power, Alastor slammed the doors open in an eruption of black smog, manifesting as he did so. He pushed the fog behind him and made it thick enough that the guards outside couldn’t reach him, as well as giving himself a dramatic backdrop. Glowing red against purple-tinged black — he could almost see it in his mind's eye. 

“Hello, lovely people, I hope you don’t mind my dropping in?” Alastor asked, leaning on his microphone easily. “Couldn’t help but notice I wasn’t invited — how rude.” 

Olivier looked almost bored. “Guards?” He called, waving a hand, and lower tiered demons came rushing in from all sides of the room. Alastor manifested his knife in his hand and cut them down as they came, his shadows keeping them from overwhelming him in numbers alone. Any power he had just used up refilled, and then some. 

“Were those guards? They looked more like insects, to me,” Alastor taunted, advancing through the room. The demons closer to the door, and thus potentially most out of Olivier’s favour, looked hesitant to react in any way. All the real threats were congregated in one part of the room then — excellent. 

“Yes, they are quite useless, aren’t they?” Olivier said, standing up. “Pity. Aris, get rid of him so that our gathering can continue.” 

A more feminine demon, also of dark hair and dark skin, stood up, the one directly on Olivier’s left, and drew her sword. The blade was white and glinted in a way that made Alastor a little bit uneasy, like when the cops passed by his house a little too slowly for comfort. Angelic metal — potentially fatal to both sinners and hellborn, and incredibly expensive for it. Blade artisans are a helpful well of knowledge. 

On second thought, there might have been more angelic blades in the room than previously assumed — after all, these overlords were all ridiculously wealthy. It was a risk, a gamble more than anything, and if Alastor had miscalculated enough to lose, he was going to be  _ furious _ . 

In the blink of an eye, she was in front of him, curved sword coming directly towards his chest, and Alastor directed the stab away with the staff of his microphone. A close call — he hadn’t known she could either teleport or fast-travel. Alastor stepped backwards into his own shadow and out of hers, blade aiming for her neck. Instead, it was caught by her forearm, directly in the center of her metal armor. Movement in his peripheral vision forced him to jump back, right before a second, shorter sword rammed itself into his stomach. Another angelic blade.

The whole exchange took only a handful of seconds, and they were hardly apart for a moment before Aris rushed him again, swords crossed in front of her. At the last second she pushed them out, in a way that would have caught him whether he darted to the left or the right. Instead, Alastor sank into his shadow again, and embodied Aris’ — in every fold of clothing, the hand guard of the swords across her fingers. In the shadow of her jaw across her neck, Alastor’s knife appeared, slit her throat, and vanished before her body hit the floor. 

His shadow coalesced and Alastor rose up, his knife dripping black blood across the floor. A cursory glance made sure that his gloves were securely in place. Alastor was the only one in the room that was still smiling — that meant he was stronger than they were, or at least stronger than they had thought. Aris’ death had shot power and magic directly into Alastor’s veins, enough that he felt relatively confident facing Olivier. This was their last chance to beat him before he became too powerful, and if Olivier was too stupid to realize that, the overlord was more stupid then Alastor thought. 

Olivier himself looked nearly stricken before he hid it behind another uninterested mask, and Lucifer simply looked intrigued. 

“King Lucifer, who is this?” Olivier nearly demanded. 

“Why, I haven’t any idea,” Lucifer said curiously. “Who are you, exactly?” 

“I’m Alastor, of course! Pleasure to meet you, your majesty.” He swept into a flourish and a bow. “I have no quarrel with you , so long as you do not attempt to defend this gentleman here — go freely if you wish, or stay and watch the spectacle if you desire! I am an entertainer at heart.” 

“Hmm. Perhaps I shall stay — this certainly has the makings of an interesting show.” 

“NO IT DOES  _ NOT _ !” Olivier shouted, furious. He stepped forward, robes swishing out around him and strands of hair coming free from their pins and braids as he came to stand in front of his table, facing Alastor. “I will  _ destroy  _ you, wipe you from existence, and we’ll see what kind of show you can put on when you’re screaming for mercy!”

-=-=-=-

**My first show here in Hell went rather well, actually**

_ Really smiles? That’s awesome, congratulations! What was it on?  _

**You know, this and that. Some crime here, some murder there. Some powerful overlord was toppled by an up-and-coming demon, so I covered that today — it’s shaping up to be quite the entertaining story.**

_ Alastor, full offense, but is this “up-and-coming demon”  _ **_you_ ** _ , by chance? You’re coverin’ your own rise to power or some shit?  _

**Well, many of my shows while alive were on the Smiling Killer. I make the entertainment, and then I cover it — why change a good thing?**

_ Smiles, you’re real fucked up, ya know that? Ya better record your shows so I can listen to them sometime.  _

**Don’t worry me like that, my angel. Stay safe :)**

_ Haha, you’re tellin’ me while  _ **_you’re_ ** _ offin’ murderous politicians. You too, Al :) _

-=-=-=-

“Hmm. Seems a tad excessive if you ask me, but it could have some merit. I might go ahead and try it out once I start my radio show,” Alastor said, grin sharpening. “I’ll be sure to credit you for the idea, of course.”

Olivier growled and stepped forward, purple flames bursting forth from his fingertips. A magic user — no wonder he was so confident without any visible weapons. Also rather unfortunate, as Alastor would have to get physical in order to kill him, and he doubted Olivier would let him get in close enough to do so. 

A bolt of fire shot towards him, and instead of dodging it Alastor dispersed it with a hand coated in red magic, making it explode in a flash and a shower of sparks, almost like fireworks. He could see Lucifer resist the urge to clap and grinned a touch more genuinely, though it was no less malicious. His shadow enveloped him, and he tried to get closer, but could only go so far as Olivier’s robes began to emit a blindingly bright light. 

With a wave of his hand, Alastor appeared again with microphone in hand and static crackling all around him. His aura darkened and seemed to glitch, red sparks forming into veves and runes before vanishing again. He cast at Olivier, a thrashing dark tentacle sprouting out of the ground and wrapping around the overlord’s ankle, making him lose his balance and focus. Alastor took the opportunity to dart forward, swinging his blade in a downward arc before his hand was suddenly stopped. 

The ground beneath him suddenly lit on fire, forcing Alastor to leap backwards out of the purple flames, but they chased him until he forced his aura into the soles of his hoof-bottomed boots. 

Now stomping out fire with every step, he clicked forward again, waving his microphone and turning the flames lime green as he passed them. Olivier had returned to standing, the purple fire surrounding his hands now occasionally flaring up with golden streaks. His hair was coming undone, beads and chains lopsided while braids escaped from their places entirely, and the hems of his elegant robes were becoming charred. Alastor, in contrast, was still pretty well put together, his jacket short enough to not touch the flames, and already artfully tattered besides, and his chin-length hair fell neatly into place around his face. 

Swishing his arms outward, all the remaining purple flames roared upwards, their cores turning golden as they licked up into the air. Alastor, surrounded by lime green and darkness, remained untouched, though he dared not get close enough to Olivier’s magic to attempt converting it again. 

A bit frustrated that his movement was now limited and he had no way of getting any closer to Olivier, let alone enough that he could slit the demon’s throat, Alastor glanced around, forcing his smile wider as he thought. He had his aura, but attempting the tentacle trick again was too risky — if it didn’t work then he would have wasted too much power. Calling on Met Kalfu to lend him a little something was an option, but not an appealing one, as the loa would demand something in return, and Alastor had no intention of giving up the power of  _ this  _ kill to his patron. 

While he thought, Olivier summoned up purple and gold sparks, which flew at him furiously, gouging stinging burns into his skin when they hit. Most he was able to block against, but he didn’t want this phase to stay long, where he was defending but not attacking. 

Thinking to change the scene up, Alastor sent the smog that he’d summoned during his entrance rolling through the hall, keeping it away from their stock-still spectators. Couldn’t ruin their view, after all, though he was surprised none of them had joined in yet, especially those that had been sitting next to Olivier. If they were waiting for the overlord’s command, they weren’t likely to get it. 

Both of their sights now obscured despite the fire, Alastor melded into the shadows that the smog cast against itself, finally able to travel wherever he wanted throughout the room once again. He could sense Olivier trying to clear away the smog surrounding him, and made it particularly dense there before stepping through into the purple fire. 

It burned the soles of his boots furiously and he could feel the painful heat in the bottoms of his feet, but under the cover of the smog Alastor lashed out with teeth and claws. They were much easier to wield, and he didn’t want to risk dropping his knife into the purple and gold flames. 

Olivier fell and gave under Alastor’s full weight, and he fell upon the overlord ravenously, eating his fill. When he was finished, he stepped away from the corpse and let the smog fall to the ground, dissipating into black ash across the banquet hall. The increase in power burned through him like a lightning strike, and both kinds of flame died before him in a flash. 

All was quiet, Alastor standing in Olivier’s place at the front of the hall, black blood smeared across his mouth and microphone grasped loosely in one hand. 

Then, with an audible gasp, the overlords closest to him scrambled out of their seats and out of the hall through side doors and archways, not realizing that Alastor was memorizing the face of every demon who ran, reminding himself to feature them on his future shows. The one on his right, who had looked similar enough to Olivier to be his sibling, would have to go first. In all the chaos, there was one sound that rang through the hall as Alastor dramatically bowed — Lucifer, slowly applauding the performance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vivziepop: Lucifer and Alastor have a mutual respect for one another.  
> Me: /so hear me out—/
> 
> I like, never write fight scenes, but I’m quite the fan of how these ones turned out. Hope you liked this chapter too, I had quite the time writing it. Also hopefully, more Anthony next chapter, but no promises? 
> 
> Anyways, please leave a comment. You guys are so sweet and I appreciate y’all so much <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s only chapter eight? Huh.
> 
> CW: medium-graphic torture, heavily implied under-age sex, you know how it is.

Molly pulled Anthony into her bedroom with absolutely no warning as he walked past on his way downstairs, making him yelp and lose his balance, stumbling into her. 

“Molls, the fuck?” He asked, recovering with one hand on the wall. “What’s wrong?”

“Pops is downstairs right now and ya have something goin’ on—” she gestured to the lower half of her face, before leaning in close to Anthony and touching his cheek next to the corner of his mouth. “Wait, Tony, is this a soulmark?” 

“Is what a— haha, of course not? I mean, I don’t get soulmarks anymore, seein’ as Smiles is, ya know,” Anthony backed out of Molly’s arms, and glanced at himself in the mirror and trailing off in the middle of his sentence when he saw his reflection. His own hand drifted up to touch the streak of black across his lower face. “God fuckin’ dammit,” he muttered. 

Turning him back around, Molly leaned upwards to examine her brother’s face better. “It  _ really _ looks like a soulmark,” she concluded. “But your eye is still…” 

Anthony sighed. “‘Least it’s you an’ not Ari or pops. Yeah, it’s— it’s a soulmark. But ya can’t tell nobody.” 

“Smiles is alive? But that’s cause for celebration, isn’t it?” Molly asked, visibly confused. “Course I won’t tell anyone if ya don’t want me too, but ain’t that a good thing?”

“Nah, he ain’t. Deathmark, you know how it is.” He touched his eye, a frown pulling at his lips. “Alastor’s dead as hell. Dead and  _ in _ Hell. He… struck a deal or somethin’ so that our soul bond still works. They ain’t supposed ta work in Hell, but there you go — smiles still pullin’ through.”

“Hell is… real?  _ Actually _ actually?” Molly asked, and locked the door. She waved Anthony over, and they sat next to each other on her bed. For a moment, despite the circumstances and that Anthony was about half a head taller than his sister by now, it almost felt like old times. 

“Yeah, it is. Al and I chat.” Anthony leaned back, until he was propping himself up on his elbows. “Worst part is, can’t really tell nobody ‘bout it. Best case scenario, they don’t believe me and think I’m just pullin’ their leg. Worst case, I get carted off to the loony bin and I get strung up for research. At least then I end up with smiles in the end, once they’re done skinin’ me ta try an’ see what Hell’s like. Or maybe worse, they  _ do _ believe me an’ I’m chased ‘round by reporters the rest’a my life.” 

“Oh, don’t be like that, Tony. None’a that’s gonna happen.” Molly softly stroked Anthony’s fringe out of his face with her fingers, sighing. “I believe you an’ smiles, alright? And I‘ll try ta help ya hide it too, if you’re so worried about it. So — what are we gonna do about this mark ‘a yours?” 

He groaned. “Smiles promised not to mark me anywhere visible, and he’s usually pretty good about it too. I dunno what I can do ‘bout it, it’s so…” Anthony sat back up and grimaced at himself in the mirror. “...conspicuous,” he finished. 

“What were ya going downstairs for anyways?” Molly tilted her head critically. “We could prolly cover it up with a well-placed scarf and some make-up.”

“It’s fine, I was just gonna grab a drink of water,” Anthony said. “I dunno when it came in, is the thing — hopefully it’ll be gone by tomorrow morning, but what I’ll do if it ain’t is a mystery.” 

“I’ll think of something,” she promised, and waved him out of her room with a sweet smile. “Go do whatever in your room, I’ll grab you some water in a bit. Come visit me in the morning if it ain’t gone, I’ll fix ya right up.” 

Anthony sighed. “You’re a real blessing, Molls. I dunno how somebody like you ended up in a family like this.” 

“I gave all ‘a my assholishness to you two when I was born~” Molly teased. “Now scram, I’m busy.”

-=-=-=-

_ Tomorrow: the punishment for your sins  _

**?? ??? I’m in Hell?**

_ Hell’s got nothin on me.  _

**Please elaborate on what my “sins” might be?**

_ Ya got demon blood on my face, asshole. Now Molly knows,  _ **_and_ ** _ I gotta stay in my room till it goes away :/ _

**Ah. My apologies, angel. I got… carried away.**

**…what are you going to do?**

_ Bitch, you’ll see _

-=-=-=-

There was a deadline on this hunt, which was new. He had to finish before Anthony’s soulmark faded away and he subsequently had to hide his appearance away. His soulmate was clever, and he would not underestimate the boy’s revenge. Alastor stalked through hell, his shadow scouting ahead and his static crackling all around him, reaching out for every radio he could sense and latching on. His first broadcast would be mandatory. 

Olivier’s little brother, a demon named Worc, was excellent at hiding — and maybe Alastor preceded his prey to come to him, but he was never averse to a bit of a scavenger hunt. So long as Worc did not  _ flee _ , he was fair game. 

His shadow returned and Alastor stepped through it expectantly, and out into a shadow in a small room. It was well lit, an electric light embedded in the ceiling and lamps set around the place as well. In the center was Worc, looking frightened and furious at once, angelic blades at the ready and pointing toward the only shadow in the room. Oh good — they were learning. 

Crackling static filled the room, snuffing out the light bulbs one by one, and Worc shook like a leaf. His long robes began to glow white as he turned around slowly, trying to look at every shadow at once. Alastor almost laughed out loud. 

The last light flickered, and Alastor finally stepped out of his shadow into the room with a grin, his eyes glowing bright red. “This is a nice set-up you have here,” he commented. “Questionable lighting, soundproof walls — really seems like it could be used for a variety of things. 

Worc launched himself at Alastor without a word, blades lighting themselves on fire. A tentacle emerged from the wall and wrapped itself around his ankle, making him trip and fall on his face before immediately trying to escape. Worc’s foot lit on fire and he kicked out as if trying to burn him, but Alastor easily lifted him up off the ground, dangling him upside-down. With a flick of his wrists, Alastor’s black knife appeared in one hand and his microphone in the other. His static flared, and just about every radio in Hell crackled to life. 

“Hello, ye sinners and other denizens of Hell! I am your host Alastor, and may I just say that it is a  _ pleasure _ broadcasting to you all tonight~” he announced into his microphone as he stalked towards his prey menacingly. “I know I am not reaching  _ all _ of you right now, but that will soon be fixed with the coming installment of my new radio tower. As things are, we have a  _ very special guest  _ with us tonight — Worc, the younger brother of the recently deceased Overlord Olivier!” 

As he spoke, Alastor slowly touched his knife to the other demon’s face, feeling him flinch away. More tentacles sprouted out of the walls, latching onto Worc’s other limbs and keeping him in place while Alastor tortured him. As Alastor did so, he continued to speak, ignoring the sounds of pain that occasionally interrupted him. It seemed that Worc was not particularly vocal, at least. 

“Yes, I am afraid that Overlord Olivier has passed away — my deepest condolences to his family, not that he has much left. I, of course, will be taking over his old territory, and will be scouting the area for a good place to put my radio tower some time soon! How does that sound, Worc?” 

Worc let out a pained gurgle, his tongue already removed and the corners of his mouth cut into a wide smile, all the way up to his ears. 

“Yes, my thoughts exactly,” Alastor continued. “This is the start of some real changes down here — I, for one, do not particularly like the way Hell has been run for the past few hundred years, and I know many who agree. Any friends of Olivier — hide. Hide and get ready, because I’m on my way to find you. It’s  _ much  _ more entertaining to have a challenge. And to everyone else,  **_stay tuned~_ ** ” 

-=-=-=-

_ Empty your schedule, smiles. I’m comin’ for ya _

**Do your very worst, angel**

-=-=-=-

Anthony squeezed his eyes shut as the hand in his hair tightened and warm white spattered across his face. He swiped the worst of it away with the back of his hand, and stood back up, raising an eyebrow at the other until he rolled his eyes and handed Anthony a wad of folded up bills and a napkin. Moving aside with a thanks, Anthony wiped his face mostly clean, counted the money, and pulled a pen out of his back pocket. 

_ That “worst” enough for you, smiles?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get absolutely fucked, Alastor
> 
> I’m pretty sure my muse took a running leap out the window this chap, because writer’s block really hit with this one — also why it’s little shorter than usual. Hope y’all liked it though!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niffty is reestablished as a character, Anthony and Ari go for a train ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick one! Mostly plot things and less relationship dynamic this chapter, but a personal favorite is seeing Anthony interact with his siblings <3 also excited to finally give Niffty some speaking lines!

Two days after his first broadcast, Alastor returned to Pentagram City from hunting down any potential threats to establish his radio tower, right at the heart of Overlord Olivier’s old territory. Manifesting dramatically at the entrance of Olivier’s Victorian mansion, Alastor carefully inspected the property — though, his act was mostly for show. He had already determined that he would put his tower here earlier that morning, and was more just gathering people’s attention. 

Somebody tapped his shoulder, and he whirled around with a wide grin, forcing the demon to flinch backwards. 

“I’d get out of here, man,” they warned him, backing away. “That new radio demon will be here any second, he said that he would be inspecting this property soon and he hasn’t showed up yet.” The demon looked from side to side nervously. 

“No need to worry about that, my dear!” Alastor announced, and the demon jumped almost a foot in the air and quickly backed away, almost tripping over their own feet. “The Radio Demon means  _ me _ no harm, hahaha!” 

Ignoring the other demon’s stuttering apologies, Alastor took a few steps back and turned around to look at the mansion again. This would have to be a show of power as well as practical destruction — demons couldn’t exactly see the full extent of his power from only radio broadcasts, after all, especially with precision torture. He would need to establish dominance over the common rabble, so that his schedule wouldn’t be filled with beating down any old demon that thought they could take him down. 

Discreetly digging his claws into the scars Met Kalfu had given him years ago, Alastor called on their bond to borrow some of the loa’s power. He drew blood, and huge writhing tentacles sprung from the ground, wrapping around and around the building and crushing it to rubble. Also on their own agenda, the tentacles sought out any nearby demons, crushing them and taking their corpses into the abyss. Alastor kept them loosely bound to the foundation of the building, wanting to leave witnesses, but otherwise left them free reign to pull demons and stone alike into the shadows. 

None of those deaths lended Alastor any energy, but he wasn’t too tired out from leaning on his patron. Retracting his claws again, the tentacles retreated back into the shadows as the fresh wounds on his palm and wrist healed. Once that was over, Alastor waved his arms and microphone showily, pulling on his own pool of magic. From the rubble, blood red smoke began to coalesce into the geometric steel spires of a radio tower, complete with blinking red light at the top. It towered over the surrounding buildings, the most modern building in a sea of the more Victorian style that Olivier had preferred. At its base was a small home, reminiscent of Alastor’s house when he had been alive. The inside was completely empty, since he hadn’t wanted to tire himself out more than necessary for the formalities, but nobody else knew that. 

Then, ignoring the gaping demons who surrounded him, Alastor walked into his new house, closed and locked the door behind him, and practically collapsed against the wall. With a sigh, Alastor shifted into his more beastly form, and his shadow helpfully took him back to his forest. He supposed it was time to get some more hunting done. 

-=-=-=-

“Pack your bags, Tony,” Ari started, coming into Anthony’s room without a single knock to announce his presence. “Pops is sendin’ us to New Orleans.” 

“What the— why?” Anthony sat up, pushing away from his desk where he had been doing schoolwork. Henry Ragno didn’t care too much about his children’s education, but Anthony’s mother had insisted. She was strict about grades too, and he actually cared if he disappointed her. “When do we have ta leave?”

“Train’s leavin’ early tomorrow morning, so ya better pack now. Pops was just gonna send me, but I convinced him to let you come along as well, so ya owe me.” He came over and sat on the corner of Anthony’s desk with a frown. “Haven’t’cha been wantin’ ta go down south for a while? An’ I know ya wanna spend as little time ‘round here as possible, ‘specially since momma’s goin’ to the hospital Wednesday.”

Anthony furrowed his eyebrows. “She is? How’s she doin’? I haven’t been up to see her since this morning before I left.”

“Still in bed. Molly says she woke up for lunch today though, and the fever’s gone down. Our med guy is really insisting on the hospital thing, so I guess pops musta finally given in.” Ari sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a few moments before getting up again. “I’m serious, Tony. Pack tonight, go visit momma or something, and go to sleep. Early train tomorrow, and if ya want breakfast before we leave ya better be up before six.” 

“Aight,” Anthony said, standing up as well. He mustered a small smile and hit his brother lightly in the arm. “Thanks, Ari. I’d have hated to be stuck here with pops while you’re funnin’ it up in smiles’ hometown.” 

Ari nodded. “You’re welcome, so long as ya make yourself useful while we’re down there.”

-=-=-=-

Without thinking, Alastor waved a hand through the air as he worked on an outline for an upcoming broadcast. “Naomi, I’ve need you to—” he started to call, tugging on the bond of their contract, and paused mid-sentence. He had become too used to the girl’s presence, and being in a space that resembled his house when he had been alive made him forget she wasn’t there. 

Sighing and faintly homesick, Alastor stood up and went to go get himself a glass of water, deciding to take a break before continuing to work. He was spacing out his hunts a bit, interspersing them with other shows similar to those he had broadcasted when he was alive. His station mostly played music though, and only the killings were considered “mandatory shows” — after all, he had many other things to do. Looking after and familiarizing himself with his new territory, lifting certain rules that Olivier had put down, and enforcing a couple new ones of his own, to name a few. 

Homesickness wasn’t a terribly common thing for Alastor to be feeling, but he supposed it was only logical for him to miss his place in the living world somewhat. Though he didn’t have many friends, the interns at his radio station had been useful, Naomi had been nice to have around, and of course Alastor had always appreciated his listeners. It was only that the last time he had been homesick was right after his mother’s death, and the homesickness had mixed in with the grief and become indistinguishable. 

Behind him, Alastor heard the faintest of popping noises, and he spun around, a grin stretching across his face in preparation. It  _ was _ an intruder, but not in the way that he had expected — instead of a powerful demon ready to attack, it was a short cyclops with red hair and absolutely no clothing, seemingly freshly manifested. 

Immediately whipping his head away, Alastor snapped his fingers and dressed the demon in comfortable clothes before turning around again curiously. The cyclops girl was standing stock still, but her eye was darting around furiously, trying to take everything in. She seemed oddly familiar, though by all means Alastor had never seen this particular demon before. 

“Hi sir!” She finally chirped, after he had been staring at her silently for some minutes. Her voice was, again,  _ intensely  _ familiar. “Who are you? Where am I? What just happened? Also why do you have ears? Not like normal human ears of course you have normal human ears, I mean maybe you don’t I can’t see them but that’s not what I meant, I mean why do you have those big furry ears on top of your head.” She took a deep breath. “Wow, your smile is  _ creepy _ .” 

Alastor squinted at her, his smile not moving an inch. “ _ Naomi? _ ” He finally asked, connecting her speech patterns to his old maid. 

“That’s me! Although I don’t really want to go by that anymore, ‘cus the guys that killed me kept saying that name over and over and over and then they called me all sorts of other things and I would really like to never hear that name again.” She glanced around. “Who’re you again?” 

“Of course, my dear. I’m Alastor, of course — don’t you recognize your old employer?” He let his smile soften into something less threatening and hopefully more familiar to the girl. “What would you like to go by?” 

“ _ Alastor _ ?” She said incredulously. “Oh  _ boy _ do I have a bone to pick with you sir! I can’t believe you off and died without letting me know first, you gotta tell me before going off and making major decisions like that! Your little trick with getting killed and all got me found out!”

“My deepest apologies, dear girl,” Alastor said, suppressing a laugh. “What name do you want me to call you?”

“I got tortured for over a week for hiding too long before they let me end up here,” she continued, coming closer and hopping up onto the counter as she spoke so that she could look Alastor more in the eye. “And it’s all your fault! I better get a helluva pay bonus for this one, sir — at this point it’s not even hazard pay since your little antics got me killed! I hope those men never get my blood out of that nice expensive carpet, it's what they deserve.” 

“Dear girl,” Alastor said, putting a gloved hand on her shoulder. “Calm yourself please. What would you like for me to call you, if you are retiring your old name?” 

“Oh. Hmmmm.” She hummed for a while. “Huh. I dunno. What about Niffty, with two Fs? That’s what you always used to call me, right?”

“Nifty is more of an… adjective, than a name,” Alastor told her, amused. “What about Mara? It’s not so close to your old name, and the biblical symbolism is appropriate.” 

Niffty thought for another few moments before shaking her head. “Nope, I like Niffty better,” she said. “It’s cuter! Am I still working for you or what?”

“Would you still like to?” Alastor didn’t mention the contract. 

“Yep!” She paused. “As long as our previous arrangement still applies, you know, all that stuff. Where else am I supposed to find work in Hell? This is Hell, right? You still haven’t told me what’s going on,  _ or _ why you have those fluffy red ears now. They are ears right, not just hair? Do you have human ears too?”

This time, Alastor didn’t contain his laughter. 

-=-=-=-

“What are we even going to New Orleans for?” Anthony asked, Ari examining their tickets to try and find their seats. “Ya neva said.” 

“Now that it looks like prohibition’s endin’, pops is lookin’ for ways to keep the business goin’ once alcohol stops having to pass through our hands first,” Ari explained absently. “He’s hopin’ to have us scout a drug deal for ‘im — just discreet like, take a look around, no diplomacy or nothin’.” 

“Kay, works for me.”

They found their seats and stopped talking as the conductor came by, keeping quiet until the train started moving and conversation started up around them. Once the people around them were engaged in their own activities again instead of bored and eavesdropping, Anthony continued. 

“Ya don’t mind if I drop ta look inta smiles a bit while we’re there?” He asked. “There’s bound ta be more news about the Smilin’ Killa down in New Orleans, and I want ta see if I can get my hands on somma his shows or somethin’.” 

“So long as ya ain’t holdin’ us up about it, I don’t care,” Ari told him. “Now settle in and find something to do — if you start botherin’ me before the eight hour mark I’m throwin’ ya out the train.” 

“Eight  _ hours _ ? How long is this fuckin’ train ride?” 

“Thirty, so I’m already bein’ generous. Scram.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Figures that Anthony is heading off to New Orleans just a few weeks after Alastor died,,,, what timing,,,  
> Also we’re still in 1933, which I frankly didn’t expect to be such an eventful year? Anyways. 
> 
> Yes, we’ll get to Husk at... some point. I have plans for him. Idk about Charlie and Vaggie though? I’ll have to look into their canon backstories a little bit more first 😌


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, bribing works, okay?
> 
> Please enjoy!!

Anthony stretched his arms above his head with a noise not unlike a kettle full of boiling water. The brothers got a few looks as they wound their way through the crowd, Ari warily watching over their luggage and Anthony practically sauntering, grin wide on his face. Indeed, they were quite the picture of contrast, in clothing, looks, expression, and general energy. 

“Can’t wait to experience  _ that _ again on the way back,” Anthony joked as they made their way off the platform. “Ain’t’cha glad it’s  _ me _ you’re stuck with for the foreseeable future~?” 

“Shut yer fuckin’ mouth,” Ari grouched back. “I’ve heard enough ’a your jabber ta last me a century. Suddenly I don’t even  _ want _ your help on the job, if ya just gonna talk my ear off the entire time.” 

“Naww, is that brotherly affection I see in those cold eyes of yours?” 

“No, it’s intent to commit fratricide,” Ari answered with a twitch of his eyebrow, his voice flat and emotionless. Anthony only laughed. 

“Ya say that, but seein’ as you’ve been threatenin’ ta throw me out a window for the past day and a half, I’m not inclined to take ya seriously,” he managed between snickers. “So, where’re we headin’ first?” 

-=-=-=-

There was a knock on his door, and Niffty raced to go and get it. Alastor stood up more slowly, making his way to the front room. 

“I must insist that this goes directly to the Radio Demon, Alastor,” the demon was saying to Niffty, who looked none too pleased. They wore a sort of uniform, almost like a newspaper boy but cleaner. “The summons is coming straight from the king of Hell, it’s very urgent.” 

“As if the king would hire someone like  _ you _ to send important messages!” Niffty huffed. “You’re just a street boy, and I know it!” 

Alastor gently pushed Niffty out of the way with a hand on the top of her head, and she flounced off to stand at the side of the door. 

“I’m Alastor. A message from the king?”

The messenger looked him up and down suspiciously and raised his eyebrows. “Can I see some identification, sir?” They asked skeptically. A dark tendril reached out of their shadow and lifted them up by their ankle, dangling them upside-down in Alastor’s doorway before squeezing hard enough to break bone. Alastor gave them a sharp smile and locked his hands behind himself amiably. 

“Is that enough identification for you?” 

Receiving a wheeze of pain in answer, Alastor let them back down, and watched them lean heavily against the doorframe with amusement. “King… Lucifer requires your presence at— at your earliest convenience,” they managed. 

“Of course,” he agreed. “I won’t keep him waiting for long. Off you go, now.” Alastor shooed the demon out of the way, and closed the door on them. 

-=-=-=-

**So, where down south did you say you were, angel?**

_ didn’t I tell ya? It’s your very own hometown, New Orleans :)  _

**…you didn’t tell me on purpose, didn’t you.**

_ Haha, got it in one~ any fun spots I ought to check out while I’m here? Anything you want an update on since you’ve been gone?~ _

**My dear, what in the** **_world_ ** **.**

**I did privately request to have my ashes scattered in the Bayou Sauvage. Come and visit me?**

_ Oh. Of course I will, smiles. Your ashes won’t have a fuckin moment of peace.  _

**And neither will I, I suspect.**

-=-=-=-

Ari pulled a few twenty dollar notes out of his wallet for their hotel rooms over the next week or two. They weren’t staying at the fanciest hotel in the area, since two teenagers staying in a high end hotel was both suspicious  _ and _ expensive, so the rooms were only about three dollars a night. 

“So, what’re we doin’ today?” Anthony asked as his brother returned to where he had been watching over their luggage. The two lugged it to the stairs and inelegantly began to carry it all up. 

“Nothing, we’re just settlin’ in,” Ari told him. “We have the rest ‘a today and tomorrow to familiarize ourselves with the area and seem like tourists ‘fore work starts. If ya want to go have a look around today the day ta do it, so long as ya find us somewhere for dinner as well.”

“Gotcha. What’s our room number?”

“Ha!” Somehow Ari laughed without smiling, Anthony couldn’t figure out how he did it. “As if I’m could manage sharin’ a room with  _ you _ . I’d kill either you or myself before the week’s up. Still might, just haven’t decided which yet. Nah, pops splurges on biz stuff, ya got your own room.” 

He tossed Anthony a key and gestured at the room across the hallway from his own. “That one’s yours, memorize the number. I’m gonna phone pops after I get settled, and you…” Ari sighed. “You stay outta trouble, aight, Tony?”

Anthony nodded, nudging Ari on the shoulder as his grin softened a touch. “Me, trouble?  _ Never _ ,” he said. 

-=-=-=-

There were few guards at the entrance of the throne room, and at the sight of Alastor they stepped aside to let him through. The room itself was less of a long hall than he had expected, and more stage-adjacent, with the king’s throne on a raised dais in the back. Alastor swept into a deep bow a few steps away from the throne where Lucifer sat, gesturing outwards with his microphone. “King Lucifer,” he said. 

“Stand up,” Lucifer allowed, and Alastor did so with a smile. “I’ve been waiting for you — shall we retreat to a parlour or some such back room? We have some matters to discuss.”

That made sense if they were to speak privately — the throne room was not exactly empty, after all. Other demons lined the walls and edges of the room, servants and advisors, generals and nobles. “Of course.” 

They left the hall separately, the king through a door behind the throne, and Alastor led by a uniformed servant to a small parlour. Said servant took down a silver pitcher from a shelf, did some sort of magic that made their hands flair red where they touched the metal, and set it down on the table before retreating from the room. Lucifer arrived alone in short order. 

-=-=-=-

**So why exactly** **_are_ ** **you in New Orleans?**

_ Ari got sent down for the family business, I tagged along since I don’t exactly fancy bein home with just Molly and pops.  _

**What about your mother? Is she out on “family business” as well?**

_ Ha! Nah, momma doesn’t get involved with the mafia biz. She’s just ill, is all — went through all of us and it’s just hitting her a bit harder. She went to go stay at the hospital this morning.  _

**That’s rather unfortunate. Many well wishes to your mother, I suppose. Must be quite the sickness if a mafia family is resorting to the hospital.**

_ Yeah well, our usual guy insisted. She’ll probably be out of there by the time me and Ari head home.  _

**Of course, angel :)**

-=-=-=-

Lucifer poured them both a small mug of steaming coffee, and with a stir of his spoon turned his own from a deep brown to a pale, sweeter tan. Alastor simply took a deep whiff of his mug, grinned, and sipped it black. 

“So, how have you been settling into Hell, Alastor? I understand that you are quite new here,” Lucifer said, settling back with a smile of his own. 

“I’m doing quite well, surprisingly,” he replied. “Not exactly what I expected in a pit of eternal torment, but I am pleased to say that I am now living about as comfortably as I did while I was alive.”

“You know, you could live  _ more _ comfortably.” Lucifer raised an eyebrow. “Demons much less powerful than you do so easily, and you already have quite the territory. You could easily live as well as any other overlord, and better than that with ease.”

“Oh, I have no interest in that,” Alastor dismissed. “I don’t need more personal property than I already have, and I am quite happy with the position I am currently holding. If you are offering me wealth and luxuries, I must respectfully decline.”

“No no, I do not grant such things to just anyone, even someone who has caught my attention such as yourself. However, with the upcoming extermination, I believe you may be interested in an offer I have for you.” 

Alastor leaned forward, intrigued. “The extermination?”

“Ah yes, I forgot that you likely wouldn’t know~” Lucifer sighed, slightly mocking. “You see, Hell has something of an… overpopulation issue. Only about a fourth, likely less, of people end up in heaven after they die, and space down here is limited. So, as a working solution, once a year exterminator angels come on down and kill off a portion of the population. It’s coming up in just a matter of weeks.” 

“Why is it angels doing this, and not, say, your job as king of Hell?” Alastor asked. “It can’t be  _ that _ difficult to convince your citizens to cause a massacre once a year. It’s likely more work to keep them from doing it  _ more _ often.” He was half-sure of the answer already, but it was better for the king to assume that Alastor knew  _ less  _ than he actually did, to avoid Lucifer perceiving him as a threat. As soon as that happened, there would be no more little coffee and information sessions, or perhaps there would be, only the coffee would be poisoned. Better to not risk it. 

Lucifer laughed. “Why, because sinners are  _ meant _ to spend  _ eternity _ in Hell, of course. Only angels can break the rules  _ they _ set, and only angelic metal can release a sinner from their fate to suffer forever and thrust them into the nothingness of Nowhere. Which, my friend, is part of what makes  _ you _ so interesting.” He peered at Alastor curiously, and Alastor blinked back slowly as he took a casual sip of his coffee. “Why can  _ you _ kill demons permanently, Radio Demon? We have all noticed the mysterious disappearances of many in our ranks, all following your gruesome little shows.”

“So, King Lucifer — what is your offer?” Alastor asked with a grin. 

Leaning back, Lucifer sighed into his drink as Alastor pointedly ignored the question. Alastor wasn’t sure what he had expected, to be frank. 

“The official title of Overlord, something you already have in all but name,” the king told him. “It’ll make the nobles take you seriously without you needing to resort to violence when one of them inevitably offends you. It’s some amount of responsibility, but you’ve already probably done more paperwork in the past few weeks than in the entire time you were alive.”

They traded a laugh. “This place is meant to be a pit of personal torment,” Alastor agreed. “Give me a day to think it over — but unless something happens, it’s probably a yes.” 

-=-=-=-

After wandering some distance from the hotel, Anthony stopped at a crossroads to ask a couple for directions. They were both dark-skinned, but dressed well, and looked open enough to conversation when he approached them. The woman nodded respectfully to him with a smile, but the man stared him in the eye openly with a wide, almost menacing, grin. Nobody passing them by, black or white, paid them any mind. 

“‘pologies for the trouble, but could either of ya give me directions to, say, the local radio station?” Anthony asked. “Bituva strange ask, I know, but I haven’t been in the area for very long.” 

“Da radio station? Of course — in fact, I can take you myself. And I’m sure Ms. Elinor will not mind accompanying us?” He had a thick accent, and didn’t look surprised at Anthony’s question. The two began down the street, Anthony following them. “You know, my son used to work community radio. He was very talented — and has moved on to bigger and better things by now.” 

“Yes,” Ms. Elinor said. “His shows have been getting very popular since he moved. Of course we are very proud of him, but I do miss him. Shame he cannot come and visit.” She didn’t elaborate. 

“Oh, you two’re married?” Anthony asked. He hadn’t really gotten that impression from how they interacted, but who knew? 

“Not quite. We are simply… associates. Not on the best of terms, but we’ve been spending some time together as of late,” the man replied. Elinor clicked her tongue, expression taking a slightly irritated turn, but didn’t comment. “We’d been waiting for you to arrive at that crossroads for quite some time, you know.”

Anthony was getting suspicious, and maybe a bit spooked. Still, the couple was being perfectly kind with taking him to the radio station, and it was possible that they were just… weird and vague, like some people tended to be. The local mob couldn’t have discovered he and his brother’s presence  _ that _ quickly, right? 

His hand fell to his hip, resting lightly on the holster hidden under his jacket. 

“Kalfu, do not intentionally frighten him,” Elinor said, almost scolding. “Dat is not the point of dis encounter.” They stopped in front of a rather ugly concrete building with a wiry steel tower poking out of it, not quite on the edges of town, but getting there. 

“Tsk. He shouldn’t frighten so easily.” Kalfu gestured at the building. “Here you are, boy — my son’s old office.”

“Yes,” Elinor said. “I’m sure they’ll have some of his recordings if you ask nicely. I don’t believe they’ve gotten around to throwing them away quite yet — his death came as quite the shock, you know.” 

  
Anthony turned back from the building, an  _ “I thought your son moved away”  _ on the tip of his tongue, but the two he had just been talking to were nowhere to be found. Someone walking down the sidewalk bumped into him roughly, sending him stumbling back, but they passed him by with nothing more than a hiss about tourists under their breath. Elinor and Kalfu had seemingly vanished into thin air. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to SuperiorDimwit because they left like,,, a fuckin essay of a comment on Every Single Chapter and almost made me cry, so there you go. Ya happy?
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, please leave a comment, and hey. I love you guys. <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *eyes Elinor and Kalfu* I wonder what these two are up to... 
> 
> Please enjoy! Also I still have no idea how to convey a Cajun accent through text lmao

The inside of the radio station wasn’t exactly bustling with people, but it was clear that everyone was dedicated to a task and incredibly busy. Anthony stood awkwardly in the doorway for what felt like an eternity but realistically was no more than a few moments, and then ventured inside, hoping that someone would notice him. 

“Oh, young man,” somebody said, passing him. “Alright, I’m so sorry, can you wait dere for just a moment? I’ll be wit’ you soon, just let me finish dis—” the woman continued on without waiting for an answer, and Anthony moved to stand out of the way, next to some filing cabinets. Soon she returned with a smile, quickly spotting him and coming over. 

“Hello! I’m so sorry, I don’t believe anyone saw you come in,” she said. Her accent had changed — gone was the Cajun accent from earlier, and in its place was the practiced transatlantic accent of a radio host. “My name is Eunice, how can I help you?” 

“I was wonderin’ if you kept records of old shows? There’s a few I was lookin’ for while I was in the area.”

She pursed her lips. “I believe we have a few test recordings in storage, but we don’t record every show we broadcast, I’m afraid. We would run out of room far too quickly.” 

“Well, could ya please look for me anyways? There’s a radio host that worked here for almost a decade, and I’m lookin’ for any audio recordings ya might have ‘a his voice, they don’t even have ta be shows,” Anthony persisted. “His name’s Alastor LeBlanc, I’m not sure which shows he hosted though.” 

A look of pain passed over Eunice’s face. “The Smiling Killer, huh. You're not the first tourist who’s come through asking.” Her accent became even more uptight as she spoke. “I’m afraid we threw those away already, sir.”

Anthony sighed, brushing his hair out of his eyes impatiently. “Listen, Ms. Eunice, I’m really pretty sure that ya haven’t actually thrown those records out an’ just want me to stop askin’ for ‘em, so ya betta understand that I won’t. The only way you’re gettin’ me out of here is if ya actually give ‘em ta me or if ya actually don’t have ‘em and are shitty as hell at tellin’ the truth without soundin’ like you’re lying,” he told her, voice slowly rising as he grew more animated. “So  _ please  _ go an’ at least look for ‘em, ‘cus I came here all the way from New York  _ specifically  _ for this.” 

Eunice looked almost stricken, gaping at him for a moment before nodding quickly. “Right, of course. You can take them off our hands. It’ll stop everyone else from asking after them, at least.” She hurried off, and Anthony registered the other eyes on him from all over the room, observing, investigating. With a self-conscious twitch of his shoulders, he retreated back against the filing cabinets to wait. 

-=-=-=-

Being Overlord involved a few things other than a fancy title and a touch more paperwork, it seemed. For one, Alastor did now have an ID — a fancy metallic one with the iridescent red-white gleam of Lucifer’s magic in the engravings, as well as an invitation to an annual gala-style party on the night of the Extermination. For the sake of more diplomatic political plays, Alastor suspected, and also of being safe in a building protected by the powerful demons of Hell during the most dangerous day of the year. 

In that regard, Alastor’s own safety was guaranteed during most of the Extermination, as he would be well protected against the angels, and his political rivals were under agreement and obligation not to harm him either. Any safety concerns were now turned to that which he considered to be in his possession — namely the Radio Tower, and of course, Niffty. There was no known way to protect against the “Forces of Good”, since that had never been a concern for people before, so it would be something to ponder. 

Alastor’s static shifted, and tuned into his own radio station to play a few lines of jazz before reaching out. Not everyone’s radio was on, of course, but he flipped through a few of the ones that were within range. Mostly staticky silence, which was to be expected, a few conversations that he listened into for a few seconds before moving on, and one or two people singing along with the music. No large fights breaking out, no eager upstart infringing on his territory, nothing Alastor had to take care of immediately. With a twitch of his ear, he tuned into the radio of his favorite blade artisan, listening in on them for a couple of moments. They had a customer who startled as the radio crackled to life in a burst of static, and Alastor cackled quietly to himself. The interior of his home was also quiet, Niffty offering him a cheerful greeting when she heard the radio turn on by itself. 

Checks on his territory completed, Alastor blinked back into the present with a faint click, static fading into the background once more. He sat quietly in the forests outside Pentagram City, it’s many beasts not daring to disturb him as he stared pensively down the length of the river. 

-=-=-=-

**You would detest it down here, my angel.**

_ That’s like the third time you’ve told me this week, what is it this time?  _

**As it happens, your namesake is very accurate. I have recently learned something peculiar about angels.**

_ There’s angels in Hell?  _

**Once a year there are, yes. For the soul purpose of raining down destruction upon we denizens of Hell.**

_ Oh fuck, are you gonna be alright? Also don’t demons like… refuse to die or something? You were complaining about that earlier.  _

**I was not “complaining”, just letting you know. And angelic metal is a special case — I’ve encountered it before, and it can be fatal to anyone in Hell.**

_ And obviously you have your own ways around the problem?  _

**Haha! Of course~**

_ Also, you  _ **_are_ ** _ gonna be safe and shit when that happens, alright. I noticed that you didn’t answer my question earlier, and you better off any angel that even fucking looks at you.  _

**Don’t overthink it, my dear. I already have plans in place, and I swear I will be perfectly fine.**

_ You better be. _

**:)**

-=-=-=-

Although Anthony was now holding onto a set of rather bulky and awkwardly-shaped packages, each one containing a fragile record disk, he didn’t immediately return to the hotel. Eunice had even given him a helpful list of restaurant recommendations “from a local” for him and Ari to go try, so by all means Anthony could have. Still, he was too curious, and obtained directions to the Bayou Sauvage. 

Off the road, the bayou was mostly watery mud, and Anthony stepped carefully across the roots of trees as he trekked deeper into the woods. Not having both hands free was a decidedly terrible decision, but he was sticking with it for the time being. Eventually he had to roll his pants up to his knees in order to continue going, the water rising to his ankles and then his shins. 

While not too deep, the water was a dull and muddy brown, tall reeds and lily pads sticking out between the trees. A white stork stood elegantly in a patch of leafy green plants some distance away, and Anthony could have sworn he saw a family of small raccoons scrambling away through the water. Cypress roots stuck out of the ground in clusters, and threatened to trip him where they didn’t quite poke above the water. 

In front of him, the trees parted out into a river, the water the same muddy brown as it had been everywhere else. Here the reeds were nearly tall enough to arch over Anthony’s head, and he had to brush them out of the way with every step. The sky was overcast and looked like it might start drizzling soon, but each sliver of a wave still reflected it’s pale grey. 

Elinor was waiting for him on a small wooden boat, and Anthony climbed inside breathlessly, thankful to have somewhere to put the records down. He wasn’t surprised to see her there — it felt like he was dreaming — and mimicked the way she sat on one of the boats benches. The boat started moving on it’s own, the waves pushing it along, and Anthony dipped a hand in the water idly. When he removed it, a few grains of some sort of coarse, dark gray sand stuck to his fingers as the water dripped off. 

“What was your son like?” He asked, putting his hand back in his lap. Elinor smiled at him kindly. 

“A good son,” she said after some time. “He listened well, and remembered it, even if he didn’t exactly take it to heart. Very protective of what he considered to be his. I remember when I had to take his favorite knife as a punishment and he plotted against me for weeks before I returned it.” The last part made her laugh quietly. 

“Your son sounds like he was a good person,” Anthony tried hesitantly. 

“He was not,” he was promptly told. “But I loved him and cared for him, and he loved me as well.”

“Oh.” 

“I haven’t spoken to him for a very long time. Almost as long as you’ve been alive, in fact.” Elinor looked at him curiously. “How has he been recently? Kalfu refuses to tell me anything, but I  _ know  _ they see each other still.”

To his memory, Anthony had never spoken to Elinor’s son before, but words still came out of his mouth without his permission. “He’s doin’ well. Tryin’ to be safe an’ all. He said he just got a promotion, so he’s a lot busier now, but we still talk to each other.” 

“That’s good,” she said, seemingly satisfied. An alligator swam up to their boat, and Elinor absently reached out her hand for it to smell, as if it was a dog. Anthony’s warning got stuck halfway up his throat, so he only watched mutely as it bumped up against her hand and swam away. “He loved this bayou as a child,” she commented. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Anthony looked around with a sigh. The grit had fallen off his fingers to the bottom of the boat. “I’ll visit again before I leave.” 

“Be sure to,” Elinor told him, and the boat pulled up to the riverbank near the road, where someone had built a wooden dock. It was empty, and Anthony gathered his records, beginning to carefully stand up. “Tell my son I’m looking out for him, alright?” 

“Of course I will,” he said. 

-=-=-=-

_ Hey Al, is your momma still alive, by chance?  _

**No, she died about fourteen years ago, I’m afraid. Why?**

-=-=-=-

Climbing out of the boat felt like waking up late on a Saturday morning and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Anthony’s hold on his records tightened, and he took a step away from the river onto more solid ground. When he turned around, Elinor and her boat were gone without a trace — which. At this point he could tell that a pattern was forming. 

Almost with a sigh, a light rain began to fall from the sky, forcing Anthony to hide the records inside his jacket and dart away, not wanting the packages to get wet. 

-=-=-=-

_ Cus I’m pretty sure I just talked to her, is why _

**What do you mean?**

_ Like a full conversation, in a boat. We were in a boat, talking about you. It was weird as hell.  _

**You mean you actually saw my mother, in the flesh, and spoke to her?**

_ Yeah, like twice. Once when I didn’t know it was her, and also just now while I was visiting the bayou. We went for a boat ride and talked about you, it was super strange.  _

**I agree, that is… quite strange. What did she say?**

_ Normal mom stuff, I guess. She said to tell you she was still looking out for you, by the way.  _

**Interesting**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kay, hope you liked it! I think the wait for the next chapter might be a touch longer than usual, I have a couple of scripts to finalize and then record that I’ve been putting off... for like a week... help...
> 
> Up next: the Extermination, babeyyy


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Extermination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Alastor comic, amirite?  
> (As more content and information comes out about the characters and Hazbin universe, this will probably get less and less canon compliant, lol. I’ll try to roll with the punches incorporate stuff like that as well as I can though.)

Alastor cut his wrist cleanly, and smeared the blood across the top and sides of his door frame in preparation for the Extermination, which was meant to start that day at midnight. The rest he let spatter on the ground until his wrist healed. With a mutter under his breath, the blood gleamed for a moment and then stained further into the wood. With luck, the angels would pass his tower over this year (and the next, and the next). He stepped inside and wrote a quick apology to Anthony about the mess, though the boy had been warned beforehand, before replacing his gloves and going back outside. 

He had recently discovered a lovely section of the Pentagram called the Cannibal Colony, and almost regretted not building his tower there instead. The air there constantly held the metallic smell of blood, and the corvids were friendly, sharp-toothed, and numerous. Alastor strolled casually down the street and turned into a butchery with a smile, a bell above the door announcing his entrance. It wasn’t that meat shops didn’t exist outside the cannibal colony, it was just that the ones inside were of notoriously better quality, and  _ much _ more to Alastor’s personal taste. 

Humming along to the ambient jazz playing around him, Alastor looked carefully over the shop’s wares. “A half leg of lamb,” he decided. “And because I simply cannot resist, a shoulder cut of venison as well, I suppose. That one should do.” 

“Right. That’ll be fifty cents,” he was told, as the butcher weighed and then wrapped the meat. 

“Wonderful!” Alastor took the bag with a grin, and handed the money over. “And as an additional favour, might you know where a fellow might find a skilled seamstress somewhere in the area?” 

The butcher tilted his head at him, almost quizzically. “You might want to check out the Franklin and Rosie Emporium, two blocks down and turn left. It’s been open for a few years by now and I’ve heard only good things, which is rare for any establishment that isn’t blatantly threatening good reviews out of people.” 

“Ah, much thanks, my good sir.” 

Franklin and Rosie’s Emporium was not quite as large as the name suggested, though it was certainly getting there. Rosie herself waved Alastor over with a grin of her own upon seeing him arrive, and he noted a radio sitting on a shelf behind the counter. 

“The Radio Demon,” she greeted, standing up and walking around the counter towards him. 

“Rosie, I presume?” Alastor summoned a hat to hand and tipped it towards her before vanishing it again, not yet having figured out a way to wear a hat that accommodated his ears and antlers. “The name’s Alastor, pleasure to meet you.” 

“The pleasure is all mine,” Rosie said. “Franklin can’t get enough of your show, and I’m sure she’ll be disappointed that she’s missed seeing you in person. As things are, what can I do for you today?” 

-=-=-=-

The Ragno brothers had been in New Orleans for about a week and a half when the hotel receptionist stopped them on their way back to their room. 

“A telephone call came in from New York while you young men were out,” he said, waving them over. “It sounded urgent, so you might want to phone back.”

Anthony side-eyed Ari with concern, and though his brother’s expression didn’t even twitch, his hands shook slightly as he hid them in his pockets. Neither of them had been expecting a call from back home, which meant there was either a major change of plans, or there was an actual emergency. 

“Right. I’ll do that right now,” Ari said, brushing away. “Anthony, go wait for me in my room upstairs.” 

“But—” Anthony started, following after him. 

“No, Tony,” Ari told him, shaking him off without even turning around. “Pops is gonna ask me if you’re there, and I ain’t lyin’ ta him. Go wait in my room.”

With a frown, Anthony retreated to the stairs as Ari beelined for the telephone. He wondered what the call could have been over — though they had been away for some time, there had only been two phone calls between them and home in total, both just Ari calling for a routine check-up. And the urgency only made it more peculiar — he had half a mind to stay near the stairs and try to eavesdrop, though he knew Ari wouldn’t speak nearly loud enough for him to hear.

Reaching their hallway, Anthony realized that Ari hadn’t given him the key to his room with a quiet groan. Feeling uneasy, he paced up and down the hall, eyes and feet tracing the abstract patterns in the carpet. Anthony had his pen in his coat pocket, but was feeling too restless to stop and write to Al, his fingers twitching impatiently at even the thought of doing so. He paced faster. 

Adjusting his coat lapels, Anthony strode over to the stairs to see if Ari was on his way up, though it had hardly been more than a minute. When there was no sign of his brother, he walked all the way to the other end of the hallway to look out the small window. The sky was grey with clouds, as it had been most of the time they had been in New Orleans, and automobiles rumbled by on the streets below. A pair of pedestrians walked by, and they looked up at the window as if they were meeting Anthony’s gaze — Kalfu and Elinor. He hadn’t seen either since his first day there, though he had returned to both the radio station and the bayou several times. After a few seconds they passed him by, and Anthony drummed on the windowsill with his fingers, filled with nervous energy. 

The inside of his room wasn’t exactly the cleanest, clothes from the days before laying on the chair and the sheets rumpled. Over the past week or so there had been one or two visitors to his room, but Anthony hadn’t made a significant effort to keep the space tidy. The two brothers had kept room service out as well, since they didn’t know whether or not the cleaning ladies would be inclined to snoop or not, and guns were not what normal teenage boys kept in their rooms, lying around or not. 

Now, however, Anthony piled his clothes onto the bed to fold, packing each one away into his luggage carefully. When Ari still didn’t appear at the top of the staircase, he wiped down the desk and nightstand with a damp towel, and then made the bed. 

This time, Ari was waiting for him just outside the door, looking stricken and with his hands clenched into fists deep within his pockets. 

-=-=-=-

The event had already begun by the time Alastor arrived at the palace, Overlords and nobles alike already filling the room. There was a noticeable pause amongst the latter as Alastor came in, giving him a good look at where, exactly, those two categories overlapped. He was dressed smartly in a thin-fitting black tailcoat to replace the red, the color then added back in his vest, trousers, pocket square, and gloves. The final touch was a narrow black Homburg with a silky red ribbon, that sat between his ears and was charmed to simply pass through his antlers. 

For a faint moment, he imagined a pale-haired boy on his arm, face flushed and grinning, and felt startlingly lonely. Then he summoned his microphone to hand, smile widening, and the moment ended as Alastor physically swept it away. 

“Rosie my dear, you have  _ truly _ outdone yourself,” he complemented, sweeping over to his newest acquaintance with a slight bow. “You look simply wondrous, a practical flower of delight.”

Rosie smiled back, her dress swishing around her ankles. “You flatterer,” she told him, and gestured to the owl demon she had been conversing with. “This is the Goetic Prince Stolas, who is unfortunately an old friend of mine. Stolas, I don’t believe you’ve met Overlord Alastor, the Radio Demon?”

The prince was draped in a red cloak lined with fur, and under that wore a suit and tie in a similar style to Alastor’s. On his head was a tall top hat, with a metallic golden crown circling the brim rather than a ribbon. “Ah, Overlord Alastor!” He crowed, not seeming to mind the overly informal introduction. Alastor could have sworn one of the owl’s four eyes even  _ winked  _ at him. “We may not have met, but I have certainly heard all about you, and not even from just the lovely Rosie. Might I just say, I was far more disappointed not to have received an invitation to Olivier’s dinner after it had already taken place than before.” 

“I am something of a showman,” Alastor laughed. “I’m sure that King Lucifer could give you a play-by-play if you asked nicely.” 

“Perhaps I shall,” Stolas said. “It’s something of a novelty to see a mortal soul join our ranks, you know. Times in Hell are changing, and it’s time that my fellow hellborn change as well. It’s been  _ millennia _ , and most of them are still the same old, same old. And if they don’t…” he hummed cheerily. “Well, we are not particularly fond of one another, for the most part. I will be sure to tune into any future broadcasts you may host.”

“And I will as well, so long as Franklin keeps bothering me about them,” Rosie said. “But we shan’t keep you — this is a night for making connections, after all. If you see Franklin, do send her our way?” 

Alastor recognized the dismissal, and bowed out of the conversation with a smile. “Of course. Perhaps I will drop by again before the night is over. Pleasure meeting you, Prince Stolas.” 

-=-=-=-

Before Anthony could open his mouth to ask “what”, Ari was already talking. 

“Come to my room and help me pack,” was what came out of his brother’s mouth. Ari’s jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. “We’re takin’ the first train home that we can catch.”

“What?” Anthony asked, almost jogging to keep up as they crossed the hallway. “What happened — what’s goin’ on?” 

Ari didn’t say anything else until he closed and locked the door behind them with a click, and started to throw clothes into his suitcase. “Momma’s out of the hospital.” His hands were shaking. “This morning. The funeral is in two days.” 

Anthony paused, hands clenching around the collar of a shirt he was in the middle of folding. “The  _ what? _ ”

“Hospital said it turns out she had the consumption, and we were lucky not ta have caught it too.” His voice was completely flat, emotionless. “She passed away this morning, six thirty-two AM. We’re goin’ home.” 

“What are you talkin’ about?” Anthony asked, wavering. His hands finished folding the shirt on their own and he absently placed it on top of the pile. “What are you— no, she can’t— the consumption? When we were last at home she hardly had more than a fever and a cough!” His breathing shook and his nose stung, but when he wiped across his eyes impatiently with the back of his wrist, they were dry. 

“She didn’t have enough strength to get out of bed, and hardly enough to eat,” Ari reminded him bluntly. “She’s been losing weight and color for weeks. It's a wonder nobody caught on sooner — if we’d taken her to the hospital faster, maybe just by a week or a few days…” he trailed off. They finished packing in silence. 

-=-=-=-

Alastor leaned idly over the balcony’s railing, a cigarette hanging loosely in his fingers. Speaking to nobility strained his nerves after a while, and he had eventually had to excuse himself for a smoke break. Outside the palace, destruction rained down from the sky, bolts of light indicating where the Exterminators flew as they darted from place to place, hunting down every demon who wasn’t protected or deep in hiding. Niffty was both, as much as Alastor could establish for her, so he felt some comfort in knowing that she was safe. 

“So dis is where you’ve been,” came a voice from behind him, and Alastor didn’t need to turn to know who it was as Met Kalfu walked up to the railing next to him, leaning back against it lazily. “I’ve been waiting on you t’ try killing an angel, you know. After all, why else would you be calling on me today?” 

“Maybe next year,” Alastor said. “No, I have a request.”

“Oh?” The loa glanced at him, plainly interested. “And what might dat be?” 

“Let’s see — how many dead folk have I gifted you these past fourteen years,” he hummed, amusement spiking as he noticed his patron tense. “I’d like to speak to my mother again. In person.” 

“Hey now, it’s no easy task bringing someone in Heaven down to Hell on a whim,” Kalfu told him, almost cautioning. “It’ll cost you.”

“And if you determine the cost off of  _ that _ , you’re a liar,” he said. “I know Mother isn’t in heaven, and I know she isn’t dead. I want to speak with her.” 

Met Kalfu almost hissed in annoyance, like a panther coiling up to pounce. “Elinor went to see your _little_ _angel_ alone, didn’t she.” 

“ _ Don’t _ call him that,” Alastor snapped, and took a deep breath, turning away from Kalfu and back towards the city. “Yes. Let me speak to her. It can’t be too much effort to bring a spirit down to Hell for just a few minutes. I hardly saw her for more than a second last time, let alone long enough to converse.” 

“You didn’t specify in our agreement — my end was fulfilled.” The Met looked at him sideways, raising an eyebrow. “And you are quite mistaken, my boy. Your mother is  _ quite  _ dead. We had an agreement that she would not fall to Hell upon her death, but never that she would enter heaven. So long as our dear Elinor is tied to me, the one place she cannot go is here to visit you. No deal.” 

Suspicious, Alastor glanced at Met Kalfu’s face. The loa wasn’t lying. “The souls of the dead can interact with material objects?” He asked. 

“You could,” he stated flatly. “Elinor cannot, with… exceptions. We are in association, after all.” 

In the distance, the streaks of light coming down from the sky stopped, and there was a great buzz throughout the city. Then, like a swarm of fireflies rising out of the grass, every Exterminator in hell rose up in one giant sheet and flew up into the air, presumably returning to heaven. For a few seconds, the sky was ablaze with pure white light, before it faded and vanished. Alastor hadn’t realized exactly how many Exterminators there had been until that exact moment, but for the past twenty four hours they had been dropping continuously from the sky. It was a wonder anyone survived the annual purge. 

A few more seconds passed, and the bell began to toll as the countdown reset back to 365. One full year until the next extermination. 

“If you have no deal to make, I’ll be off,” Met Kalfu said, raising his voice over the sound of ringing bells. “You should go back inside. Everyone is wondering where you’ve been.” The loa sank into his own shadow, and vanished. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) you know what, I think it would be fun if the extermination happened on the Passover, with the whole symbolic Angel of Death thing going on there. Hence what Alastor does to try and avoid the exterminators? Just a personal headcanon, but that might’ve peaked through. 
> 
> 2) everyone in the Ragno family is going to grieve in different ways (and sometimes grieving involves making up excuses to beat up your least favorite son). So. Warning for upcoming chapters. 
> 
> 3) I still have no idea how to communicate a Cajun accent through text. You’d think I would by now, but nooo. 
> 
> As always, comments are highly appreciated! I do read them all, so if there’s any confusions let me know and I’ll try to clarify them if they aren’t intentional. Thank you all for your patience with this one (but chapters are probably going to continue spacing themselves out as my workload increases, sorry guys!! <3)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @yall asking if Angel’s gonna be okay:  
> No. No he’s not. 
> 
> CW: funerals, drug use, etc

**Angel, when you saw my mother, did you by chance also see a man with her? Dark skin, muscular, named Met Kalfu?**

**My angel?**

**Anthony?**

-=-=-=-

Though Anthony saw the writing on his arm and was sure that he knew who Alastor was talking about, he couldn’t have picked up a pen to answer if he tried. He was certain that, had he been able to do so, his handwriting would have been too shaky to read anyways. His hands felt stuck to his lap, fingers clenched into fists as he stared into his coffee. 

Ari had kicked him out of their room after their third shouting match had prompted nearby passengers to bang on their door. It was all stupid stuff that should’ve been fine — move your luggage from the middle of the floor, take your clothes off my bed, have you seen my toothbrush — but Anthony couldn’t seem to control his temper. Nor could Ari, apparently, and minor issues ended up turning into fights more often than not. 

And to speak of the devil, Ari came down the hall and sat down on the bench across from Anthony with a thump. His brother’s gaze felt piercing on his forehead, but Anthony refused to look up and make eye-contact. 

“What are we eating for dinner?” Ari asked him. His voice was rougher than usual, and Anthony glances at him in surprise. Shockingly, Ari’s eyes were slightly red, the lids puffy as if he had just been crying but had washed his face before leaving their room. 

Anthony looked away. “I don’t know,  _ Aris _ ,” he said, his voice quiet but containing as much taunting as he could inject into it. It wasn’t much, but he still saw his brother bristle across the table — Ari had always detested his real name (though his chosen name only differed by one letter? Anthony didn't get it, but the knowledge served him well). “What  _ are _ we eating?”

Watching his brother struggle to contain himself in order to avoid causing another scene was both entertaining and frustrating. Entertaining because rarely did so much emotion play across Ari’s face, and frustrating because a large part of Anthony craved to yell again, to feel burning anger in every vein. Funny. He didn’t have the energy to pick up a pen and answer a simple question, but the idea of screaming in Ari’s face was so very tempting. 

“Chicken casserole then.” Ari stood up again as Anthony folded his arms. “I’ll get you a serving.” 

“Thanks,” he muttered, and his eyes unfocused back into his coffee as Ari left him alone to his thoughts. 

-=-=-=-

_ Yeah, I did. _

**Ah, thank you. What did he say? Also you were quiet for a rather long time, I was getting quite worried.**

_ Sorry, Alastor, I’m going silent. For a week, maybe longer. You can talk if you wanna, but I can’t. Sorry _

**Alright, my angel. Stay safe.**

-=-=-=-

Digging was hard work, and Anthony had been out back in the yard for the past two or three hours with a shovel, pretty much since the sun had been up. It would have been faster if his father had allowed their men to help, but tradition was tradition, and so it was only himself, his father, his uncle, and Ari. The grey morning was chilly and silent, and their only background noise was measured breathing and the rumbling from the occasional automobile. At least the monotonous labor and slow numbing of his fingers from the cold around the shovel’s handle kept any thoughts from creeping into his brain. 

At last, the gravedigging was completed, and they were all dismissed back to the house to clean up before the preacher and other guests arrived. Anthony stood apathetically under the rush of steaming hot water as feeling slowly returned to his extremities. Almost forgetting to even wash himself, he got out and wrapped a towel around himself before returning to his bedroom and opening up the shower to his waiting brother. His suit was black, a far cry from the bright colors he usually tried to wear, and much more formal besides. He put it on without fanfare, and left for the hallway. 

His parents’ bedroom was cold and should have been empty, as Anthony’s father had stayed up with the body for the past two nights. As he passed it however, he heard a muffled noise from inside, and saw Molly sitting and crying on the bed. On a whim, Anthony entered and sat next to her, wrapping an arm around his sister’s waist and pulling her close. 

“If we had brought her to the— the hospital faster she would— she would still be alive,” Molly sniffled, though her breath hitched in places. Anthony rubbed her back as comfortingly as he could manage. “If we’d caught on that— that she had the consumption faster—” 

“Maybe,” Anthony murmured, wrapping his other arm around her rather awkwardly. He noticed that she was already wearing her funeral dress as well. Molly didn’t look the same in black. 

“This is— this is all my fault!” 

“Hey now, no, no it’s not, Molls.” Anthony pressed their foreheads together with a sigh. “Molls, it ain’t your fault. The med guy should have caught it, or pops could’a given into the hospital demands sooner. Shoulda coulda woulda — it’s not on you, so don’t put all the blame on yourself, kay?” 

Molly sniffled again, pulling away to take out her handkerchief. “How’re ya so put together, Tony?” She wondered, touching his dry face with a slightly damp hand. He just shrugged. 

“I’m sure I’ll break soon,” he told her, only about half-honest. “Just puttin’ it off until after the funeral, I think.” 

-=-=-=-

**I would appreciate it if you kept any potential stains off of your face, angel. I hope that you are well in your silence.**

-=-=-=-

**It’s been a week, and I hope that you are doing alright. Whenever you would like to speak, I will be here.**

**Take as long as you need, but I do miss you dearly.**

-=-=-=-

**I hope this blood isn’t yours, my dear. Be careful, Anthony.**

-=-=-=-

**The charred forests outside of the city are not pleasant, but at least they are quiet. I miss you, my angel, my dearest, my darling.**

**Please take care of yourself.**

-=-=-=-

After the funeral, he changed out of his funeral garb, and had taken the PCP with him before leaving the house, swallowing one on his way towards the One-Eyed Tiger. The walk never took him more than forty minutes, but after two or so hours Angel still hadn’t arrived and was terrified of returning home. Every step he took it felt like his feet sank a mile into the sidewalk, which felt horribly uncomfortable, and his teeth chattered in the cold. 

Freezing cold, he knocked on the window of a parked rumbling automobile, but didn’t hear himself speak. The man sitting inside the car seemingly did though, as Angel was invited inside, and the two drove off. They did not end up at the One-Eyed Tiger, but instead at a seedy hotel where Angel was made to wait while the man paid for a room. He tuned out the flowing words around him, spacing out and settling into the increasingly loud ringing in his ears instead. The PCP made him malleable, and Angel accepted the hand around his wrist that led him away without a thought. He also accepted the wordlessly the money pressed into his palm after the fact. 

Angel found himself outside of his house again, and his father was screaming at him — his face bright red, spittle flying everywhere. Even that wasn’t any louder than the ringing white noise though, and he rocked back and forth on his heels as he waited for the storm to pass. His feet sank into the floor like quicksand, and he couldn’t move at all. His father was larger than seemingly possible and Angel was terrified, but at the same time almost tranquil. Everything had been turned off. 

Still, the slap stung like a fire, and it was how unexpected it was rather than the force that made Angel drop to the floor like a stone. Despite the noise he heard his mother’s gasp in his ears clear as day, though when he turned only Molly was there watching. His father was still screaming, but nothing could have been as loud as that shocked gasp. 

He blinked, and he was in his bedroom, the space looking almost foreign. Both his siblings were crowded around him, and Ari shook a bag containing a single pill in his face and called him Tony. Molly rolled up his sleeves and sighed, gently tracing over the distorted black lines on his arm. Angel said something, but he still couldn’t hear the words coming out of his own mouth. 

“Anthony, are ya hearin’ me?” Molly asked, her face a mask of concern. 

“Course I’m hearin’ ya,” Angel responded, screwing up his eyebrows and frowning. The PCP was finally wearing off. 

-=-=-=-

**_This is Anthony’s brother Ari._ **

**What is it? Your brother has not written in some weeks, and you’ll understand that I’m rather worried.**

**_I know. Our mother recently passed away, though I didn’t know Tony’d gone completely silent. I want this to be gone by the time he wakes up, so I’ll keep it short — my idiot brother went and got his hands on some angel dust, and it ain’t my responsibility to take that shit away. Even if it is shit. I dunno how long he’d had it for, but this is the second time he’s taken the stuff._ **

**How much? Is he alright?**

**_Alright as he can be when he’s out of it, high as shit, and grieving. Just two dime tablets, and they’re both gone by now._ **

**Very well, Ari. I do appreciate the update. Please look after him.**

**_I ain’t my brother’s keeper._ **

-=-=-=-

Alastor was bored. Alastor was  _ so  _ bored. Bored enough that he created an entirely new section of his show where he reviewed meat shops around hell, just for an excuse to get out and about, scare some folks, so on and so forth. He  _ craved _ entertainment as much as he craved death, or half-decent food, or a satisfying hunt. 

Well, there was an explanation for his sudden lack of entertainment, at least. Anthony had been silent for nearly a month, and other than the short conversation he had had with the boy’s older brother, there had been no news as to how his angel had been doing. Other than the occasional blood spatters or circular white imprint on his tongue, that is. Alastor didn’t stop writing, though. Not when Anthony had talked to him relentlessly for nearly a full year with hardly any acknowledgement, and at age  _ six  _ no less. 

Suddenly there was a tug in his gut, a feeling like he was falling through the floor of the abyss again. His shadow crept up his ankles and tugged on the hem of his slacks. Alastor barely had time to call out to Niffty that he was leaving, and then he was swallowed up and plummeted into his own shadow. 

-=-=-=-

_ Smiles? Sorry for the long silence, I’m back.  _

_ Write me as soon as you see this, alright? _

-=-=-=-

Alastor woke up in the Abyss, the Nowhere that Met Kalfu and the shadow creatures resided in. And indeed, Met Kalfu was there, arms crossed and expression one of deep annoyance, along with a woman that was deeply familiar. 

“...Mother?” He asked, taking a step forward. And was immediately sent stumbling back as his mother rushed into him and wrapped him up into a warm embrace. Slowly he raised up his arms and cradled his mother’s back, eyes wide in shock. The Met tutted, beginning to tap his foot in clear irritation. 

“My dear, mon cher, my love,” Elinor gasped, and pulled back to grasp his shoulders. “You’re so skinny, I can see every one of you bones, my lovely boy. Have you been eating enough? Your skin is so pale… how have you been doing?” 

Kalfu coughed, audibly clearing his throat as he glared at their reunion. “Elinor…” he warned. 

“Yes yes, here you go, scram,” she sighed, waving her arm. Her form wavered and turned slightly transparent, strings of color like the aurora borealis in shades of yellow and blue and pale green escaping from her fingertips and into Met Kalfu. Alastor gaped, and the Met smirked at his reaction. “Now leave,” Elinor dismissed, and Kalfu melted away into the void’s many shadows. 

“What was that?” Alastor demanded. 

“Nothing that he wouldn’t get eventually anyways,” Elinor said, sitting down. “What else am I meant to deal him —  _ your _ soul? No love, don’t be silly. Besides, you wanted to talk to me?” 

“I didn’t ask for you to trade part of your  _ soul _ for me, Mother!” He pressed his lips together, the wide smile falling from his face. “I just… wanted to see you again.” 

Elinor smiled sadly at him. “If dat was all, then you need not’ve called the Met, cher.”

He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t, I called for Papa Legba and Baron Samedi first. I wasn’t even completely sure he was a Loa until you appeared. You didn’t raise a  _ complete _ idiot, Mother.” Alastor leaned forward with a growing grin. “Still, I have questions. What this arrangement you have with Met Kalfu is, for one.”

“So nosy,” she scolded. “We’re no more than associates with our respective deals and ends. He is annoying and arrogant, and spending so much time wit’ him is nothing less than the Lord’s revenge against our bloodline.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow. “Seems unnecessarily dramatic,” he commented, and his mother frowned at him. 

“You then. How’ve you been getting on.” She raised her own eyebrows back up him, flashing her teeth. “You’re awfully more dead than da last time I saw you, hmm cher? Haven’t been taking care of yourself I see.”

“The whole being dead thing is  _ not  _ my fault,” Alastor complained, a frown pulling at the corners of his lips. Elinor laughed in his face. 

“Son, you’re the murderer that got murdered,” she told him. “It is  _ certainly _ your fault. You better not get yourself double-dead ‘cus you weren’t paying enough attention on extermination day.”

“Yes, Mother,” he sighed, and changed the subject. “So, how did you summon me here? Or was that all the good Met’s work?” 

“Is that a sudden interest in demon summoning I see?” She asked. “It’s not terribly difficult to find that information in Hell you know, and at least it’s accurate.”

  
“Still, I’m curious,” Alastor persisted, “as to what you used to summon  _ me _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop I wonder why Alastor’s asking after summoning rituals,,,,, 👀
> 
> Anyways, Anthony’s going by Angel now, at least in the narration. I thought it would be nice if that switch happened after his first experience with his namesake :3 Also I feel like we’ve dwelt on 1933 for long enough, so we’ll start skipping forward again next chap :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and if you did I would really appreciate a comment!! 💖


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time skips forward, like a flat stone over a pond on a windless day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life ain’t treatin’ me right, I’d like to file for a divorce? 
> 
> Yeah... sorry for the wait. Haven’t had much time to write recently, cus work + *gestures to state of the world rn* uhhh,,, stress. Idk when that’s gonna get fixed, so no promises as to future updates besides the fact that I’ll write them? 
> 
> If you were curious about the song that makes an appearance in chapter, it’s Always by Irving Kaufing (1926). I thought it was fitting :) the videos I listened to for reference are these:  
> https://youtu.be/yHEbjvW65BA  
> https://youtu.be/pXsIAY7fIc0
> 
> TW: child abuse (of the physical and verbal variety).

**Mon ange, it’s lovely to hear from you again**

_ Yeah… sorry Al. Shit hasn’t been the best, recently, but I’m mostly back. _

**Yes, my dear, I had gathered. Consider this an invitation to fill me in, if you feel comfortable.**

_ Just. Life stuff. Took longer than I expected to get over myself, is all. Sorry I didn’t check in earlier.  _

**Your apology is not necessary, but accepted. And I have a feeling it was not only “life stuff”, angel. Care to clarify?**

_ Not really _

**And that is perfectly acceptable as well. But remember that you can always talk to me, darling.**

_ I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you, smiles :)  _

-=-=-=-

Angel sat on the floor of his bedroom, his folder of records set at his side, and his father’s phonograph moved upstairs with his brother’s help. He felt… almost nervous, anticipatory, but knew he had to get a move on before his father returned home from business and discovered the record player missing from their parlor. With shaky hands, Angel wound it until it was just starting to feel tight, changed out the needle, and put the first record in. Once it was in place he carefully flicked the break release before putting the needle on, waiting for the scratchy crackle to turn into something like the sound of static. 

The voice that crackled through was singing, and Angel sat back in surprise. 

“ **_I’ll be loving you always— with a love that’s true, always— when the things you’ve planned need a helping hand, I will understand, always—._ ** ” Came the voice, slightly out of tune but nonetheless beautiful. He could hear faint laughter in the background of the recording, though it was nearly covered up by the cracking of the record. Angel scanned the envelope for the label and sure enough, it was the first one that had been recorded. 

“ **_Days may not be fair always— that’s when I’ll be there always— not for just an hour, not for just a day, not for just a year, but always—._ ** ” 

The voice trailed off, and the laughter did as well. “ _ Is that what you’re choosing to put on the test record, Alastor? _ ” Said the familiar, albeit scratchy, voice of Eunice. 

“ **_Well, isn’t a song what is usually recorded? We are just testing out whether or not this wax impression recording machine actually works. Frankly, I am quite impressed that it has been going so well, considering there was a fifty percent chance it was a scam,_ ** ” the voice of his soulmate (his  _ soulmate! _ ) replied. “ **_I’m still not sure why station management insists on us doing this. It seems a waste of time, and we can’t even do most of the process in the studio. Seems an awful lot of effort for something that will inevitably just end up in storage. How much time do we have left?_ ** ”

“ _ About three minutes. You can just talk about whatever — we’ll make a few copies but like you said, they’ll just end up in storage. _ ”

With a quiet sigh, Angel leaned back against the side of his bed as Alastor’s voice continued from the gramophone. 

-=-=-=-

Life in Hell settled and became mundane, but the comfortable sort that didn’t skirt the edge of falling into boredom. Alastor sat at his desk as jazz played on the radio and Niffty chattered about this and that which had happened on her day off. He sewed stolen shadows from the Met’s Void into black spirits with wide stitched smiles, and they flew off to do his bidding as soon as they were completed. Wisps and creature with horns and glowing red eyes, tied down with Alastor’s enchanted white thread. He tied a knot before cutting it off, and the shadow thing melted into his magical well. 

A knock sounded at his front door, and he stuck the needle through his spool of thread before standing up, picking his jacket up from the back of his chair. Niffty was at the door in less than a second, moving aside the curtain on the window to see who was outside before opening it. 

The demon standing outside his house had grey-blue skin, two pairs of arms, bright pink eyes with no iris or pupil, and was  _ very _ tall — to the point where he’d have to slouch if he didn’t want his head to brush Alastor’s ceilings, let alone the doorframe. And Alastor was already a full foot taller than he had been in life, and had adjusted his house with that in mind. The stranger had to be at  _ least _ ten feet tall, if not more. 

Seemingly to add onto that height, he wore a tall red top hat, with a wide ribbon and large feather — both with black and white stripes. He also wore long red robes lined with black and white fur and clasped with gold hearts, which impressively reached all the way to the tops of his shoes, as well as some sort of collar-meets-fur-scarf, which may or may not have been attached to his robes. Like, the collar was patterned with red and vaguely heart-shaped specks rather than black stripes like everything else, but it was truly impossible to tell. 

He smirked, and one of his oddly pink teeth was metallic and golden.

“Might I be at the residence of Overlord Alastor?” He asked, speaking to Alastor over Niffty’s head, despite the fact that Alastor was still some distance from the door. “I’m Valentino — a  _ pleasure _ to be making your acquaintance.” 

On pure gut instinct — perhaps it was the height, perhaps it was the way that he ignored Niffty altogether without even glancing down at her — but Alastor was  _ not _ a fan of Valentino. 

“Niffty, my dear,” Alastor said, ignoring Valentino for a few minutes. “Why don’t you run off for a bit?” It was their own personal code for Niffty to hide or disguise any secrets that Alastor had laying about in his own home while he wasn’t expecting visitors. In addition she would keep an eye on them, and fake a personal emergency if necessary so that Alastor could back out of an interaction with some semblance of decorum. A veneer, however thin, of politeness did wonders in politics. 

“‘course!” She chirped, and with one last glare up at Valentino, she vanished into the house. 

“Now, Valentino, is it?” Alastor said, raising an eyebrow. “So what brings you to my doorstep?” 

“I was simply wondering,” he said smoothly, “about something I noticed. There is a particular demon who made a guest appearance on your show some time ago — Asmodeus, the demon of lust. I thought I might ask whether or not you were planning to fill his position?” 

Alastor scoffed. “No. I have no interest in lust as a sin, though that was not the reason Asmodeus was featured. Why?” 

“Not even a passing interest?” Valentino pressed, his smirk growing wider. “No intention, perhaps, to fill the role purely for power’s sake?” 

“No. I have my own ways to power, which do not involve a sin I am uninclined towards. If you are only satisfying a curiosity, you may take your leave.” 

Valentino didn’t move an inch. “Well, I’m sure you know that lust is a rather important vice to many sinners, Alastor. And if you are… wholly uninterested in even the power aspect, might I suggest a simple deal?” 

“...Why don’t you come inside. We’ll discuss business.” 

-=-=-=-

_ You know, while I was in New Orleans I did actually get my hands on some old records of ya~ _

**Oh, did you? I’m surprised that station management let you have those. They’re usually quite picky about what we keep stored.**

_ Eh, seemed pretty eager to get rid of the things, actually. I think a bunch of other journalists were going after them so the station got annoyed?  _

**How unfortunate.**

_ Yeah. You sound pretty much how I expected, honestly. You’re so formal/polite all the time, it’s kind of creepy.  _

**I’m a demon and a serial killer, darling. Creepy is part of the persona.**

_ Ha! It’s sorta weird that you never dropped the accent though, not even in the test ones. Sweet singing voice, by the way.  _

**Ah, I forgot we kept that old recording. And have you considered that perhaps that is my natural accent? :)**

_ Oh yeah, sure, you were fuckin born with a perfect transatlantic accent. A miracle radio baby.  _

**You never know, angel~**

-=-=-=-

Ari was standing off to the side, his hands clasped behind his back and his face and expression tight. Angel was thankful that Ari held his eye contact so that he didn’t have to find somewhere else to look, at least. His father’s next kick caught him in the ribs and he fell, catching himself on one hand with a short gasp. He blinked back tears furiously, staring forward as the pain flared up. 

“You stupid, sniveling,  _ lazy _ little brat,” Henry Ragno spat. “So  _ weak _ . You can’t hide your tears from me, boy — I can still tell you’ve hardly progressed from being a toddler. Anything you do only makes it  _ more _ obvious. Useless child.  _ Stand properly. _ ”

Unsteadily, Angel rose to his feet and fixed his posture, wincing as his leg protested the weight he put on it. He waited for another round of insults, another blow, but neither came for a few long moments. Then Ari’s eyes squeezed shut — the only warning Angel had before the hard toe of his father’s boot kicked expertly into the back of his knee, making his buckle underneath him. He caught himself on his elbows, and waited until he heard the click of Henry’s shoes walking away before looking up. 

His brother was still looking at him, face for all intents and purposes unreadable. Then Ari turned, and followed Henry out of the room. 

Angel could feel a sob rising in the back of his throat and held his breath, ignoring his tears and breathing out slowly through his nose until the feeling went away. He sat back and assessed himself, trailing his fingers across his torso and leg to try and determine if anything needed to be treated. Mostly he would just bruise badly, but that would be manageable. The back of his leg might have been bleeding, but he couldn’t see it well enough to tell. Any marks were easily explained away to Alastor as being from an unexpected fight though — he would get a reminder to be careful, but that was fine. 

Next — if he was careful he could probably walk and get to either his room or the kitchen. Room would be safer, but it would be nice to get to the kitchen before dinner, since Molly wouldn’t be able to sneak him anything to eat until she was going to sleep. 

Still debating between going after food with a chance of getting caught or just retreating upstairs to empty his stash of food, Angel got up and slowly limped over to the wall. Upside was that he probably wouldn’t be expected to work that night, and he could actually get some homework done. Though he wasn’t even in school anymore half the days of the week, Angel tried to make at least some sort of effort. 

Thankfully, Molly sneaked out of the kitchen with a worried expression, holding her purse. She handed it to him and stretched up on her tiptoes to brush her lips against his forehead.

“Can ya bring my purse up to my room for me Tony?” She asked, voice oddly cheery considering her expression. Angel glanced inside the bag and found a dinner roll and a handful of grapes and dried nuts. 

“‘Course, Molly.” He nodded at her in thanks, and she returned to the kitchen. 

Sixteen years of dealing with his father meant that even as things got worse, Angel was surviving. Thriving even, when he had an extra tab of angel dust in his stash and Alastor was in the mood to chat. Or when his father decided to retire early and Angel could make a trip down to the kitchen without losing more than an hour of sleep. And especially when Henry left altogether on business, and Angel could go out and see what clients Mister Gigante had waiting for him. Connie’s boss was far less bearable than she had made him out to be, but helpful in that Angel could disguise his own business as a visit to a friend. 

Yes, Angel was decidedly thriving, even when things didn’t go so well. 

He ignored the scratchy voice with a transatlantic accent, which laughed almost mockingly in the back of his mind. “ **_Thriving,_ ** **hmm? Not to insult, I simply can’t help but question your definition of** **_thriving_ ** **a bit.** ” 

-=-=-=-

“A deal?” Alastor asked, sitting down on his couch and motioning for Valentino to do the same. 

“Yes — you see, my chosen vice happens to be lust, and with Asmodeus gone, there is something of a market there for me to… market to. With you in possession of all of Asmodeus’ power and territory however, you can see why someone who was planning on challenging Asmodeus for said power and territory might be having something of a problem.” 

Alastor tilted his head to the side. “Yes, well, certain demons might have acted faster. And I was not planning to change the lust district, simply… not oversee it. I fail to see where you come in.” 

“Surely you know that if you leave an entire district to itself nothing will continue on and there will be anarchy and havoc throughout,” Valentino said. “And because it is in your territory, it would be your responsibility as an Overlord to take care of a mess you don’t even care about.” 

Well, he hadn’t exactly had plans in that direction anyways. Despite Alastor’s dislike of the other demon, it was a fair problem that he hadn’t yet felt inclined to solve. “So, your proposed solution?” 

“A deal, a contract if you will. No power of mine will ever go against you or anything you claim as belonging to you, and I will never encroach on your territory. Nor need you ever deal with the sin of lust again. In return, I get every power currently in your possession that directly pertains to my preferred vice of lust, and you won’t interfere.” Valentino tilted his head and grinned. “Sound fair?” 

Not even a little, but Alastor had been expecting that. “Not quite. You use my power, you pay the 33% tax on any gain that my power funds,” Alastor said. “And if the investment turns no profit for me, the power will be returned.”

Valentino looked vaguely irritated for a moment, before the expression cleared away. “I suppose.”

“So, it’s a deal, then?” Alastor offered his right hand for a shake, neon green light bleeding out of it and illuminating the room, casting dark shadows on the wall — though none darker than Alastor’s own. A chilling wind rushed out from his palm, making his hair billow around his face. He could tell Valentino was upset that he hadn’t been able to make his own deal with his own magic, but even with Alastor’s stipulations Valentino would still be the one making the most of the deal. There was no way the other demon could protest. Besides, Alastor didn’t quite trust Valentino’s deals to be quite as binding as his own. 

“It’s a deal,” Valentino agreed after a moment of hesitation, and shook. 

-=-=-=-

**Happy 17th birthday, angel**

_ Only one more year until 18~ shame we can’t meet next year, seein’ as you’re dead and all. _

**It is a shame, isn’t it. Still, not so far away as you thought at age 10, hmm?**

_ Let’s pretend I was actually sentient at age ten and know what you’re talkin’ about. How the hell do you even remember that shit, smiles?  _

**You were certainly sentient at 10, my dear. And you must know that I hold all of your words near and dear to my heart.**

_ Haha. Is that my birthday fact, or are you going to tell me something actually interesting.  _

**Is my admiration for you not interesting enough?**

_ It does get boring after a while, Al :3 Gimme some weird shit. What kinda fetishes do ya have? I’ve seen some weird ones~ _

**Perhaps we’ll break the tradition this year and I won’t tell you anything. I do have some other business to attend to, seeing as I’ve woken up early simply to write you well wishes.**

_ Nooo, smiles, c’mon. I was just jokin’  _

_ Smiles, are ya serious?  _

**Quite :)**

_ You fucker. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) this chapter skims forward about three years — next chapter Angel will be nearly 18  
> 2) the research rabbit hole I went down while looking up facts about vintage records for this chapter was /deep/ and Very Interesting, actually.  
> 3) I stared at Alastor’s little shadow minions for so long trying to figure out what they were, I probably blacked out. Here’s a headcanon that will almost definitely be proven wrong at some point, in the meantime. Close competitors were: past souls that Alastor’s made deals with, or simply minor demons that serve him via Sir Pentious’ eggbois  
> 4) if you like Valentino (I know some people who have Val as their comfort character the way Angel is mine) and reading about him being, uh, mean in an in-character way makes you feel Bad you’re safe... for now. Keep an eye out for warnings abt that in the future <3  
> 5) Alastor did give in and tell Angel a Birthday Fact™, I was just too lazy to come up with one and I wanted to get the chapter up today
> 
> Sorry for the long note and and the long wait, you guys. Your comments are super encouraging and nice though, and I appreciate it a lot!! Much love to all of you <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel’s 18th birthday + Fucking Finally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all catch on fast, but you don’t catch everything!
> 
> This and the next chapter or two (depending on how long this arc takes) will literally be,,, pure fluff,,, 
> 
> CW: shockingly, none! Though if I missed something, point it out.

Alastor approached the looming castle with some small amount of apprehension. The spires were constructed out of pale grey stone, the windows with some mishmash of red and gold glass. Everywhere was the heart and crown emblem of this particular noble — carved into the stone above the gate, embroidered on hanging ribbons, even randomly into the bricks which made up the wall surrounding the property. 

As he walked up to the front gate, a glowing purple sigil appeared on the doors, and all the edges where they met the doorframe glowed for a moment before it opened on it’s own. The inside was dark, but extravagant, with intricately embroidered curtains draped across the walls and large leafy plants in fine stone vases. The purple magic flowed together into a long line, which sped across the floor and through one of the branching hallways. Following it, Alastor came into a comfortable sort of parlor, and the magic flowed back into the glowing talons of it’s master — Prince Stolas. 

Stolas was lounging languorously across one of the sofas, one hand drumming idly against a cushion, and long tail sweeping across the floor from under his robes in a rustle of feathers. 

“Overlord Alastor~” Stolas said smoothly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” 

“Not a social visit, I’m afraid,” Alastor replied, taking a seat across from Stolas when he was motioned to do so. From inside his coat, he took out a pale envelope sealed with wax and a stamp, but didn’t hand it over. “I have a tad bit of a personal favor to ask of you.”

“Oh? A favor?” Stolas asked, leaning forward. “What might I do for you, Alastor?” 

“I have heard that you are able to transport things from Hell to the living world,” he said, flipping the envelope over in his hands. 

“I’m afraid that I will not be able to transport  _ you _ to the human world, no matter what you offer me in return,” Stolas said. “Lucifer would protest quite strongly if humans were given any more proof of our existence. It would be more incentive for them not to end up here, and that would be rather unfortunate.” 

Frankly, Alastor doubted Stolas’ determination — any favor could be bought for a price. However, for his ability to enter the human realm to be at someone else’s whim sounded worse than not being able to access the living world at all, so he had already found a way around the fact. “No no, not quite,” he smiled. “Not myself, just a letter. Delivered unopened to the desk of a boy named Anthony Ragno in New York City. Blond hair, brown eyes, going on eighteen in a few days. I’m sure I could find you an address if necessary.”

“It is not. However… what would I receive in exchange?”

“The boy’s soul doomed to hell?” Alastor suggested with a grin. Stolas raised a feathery eyebrow. “...and some sort of small favor from myself in return — a vouch on any subject of your choice, perhaps.”

-=-=-=-

_ Smiles…  _

**What, my dearest angel?**

_ Smiles, I thought you might like to know that on this day, two days before my birthday, there has appeared a  _ **_very suspicious_ ** _ envelope on my desk.  _

**Oh? How curious.**

_ A very suspicious envelope which is sealed with a wax seal of a radio _

**What an interesting coincidence.**

_ Which has instructions for me to not open it for two days, which happens to fall  _ **_on my birthday_ ** _.  _

**Perhaps you ought to follow those instructions, darling. However, I’m still not quite sure what the problem is.**

_ I’m not sure how you managed this bullshit, but you’re a fuckin’ bastard for it _

**A absolute bastard for you, mon ange~**

-=-=-=-

Angel stared down at the paper in absolute shock. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, honestly, but a summoning ritual sure wasn’t it. It wasn’t long — less than a page handwritten, and the rest was stipulations and happy birthday wishes in familiar handwriting. He was glad he had the foresight to open the envelope beforehand, at least — some of the stuff he needed would be a bit tricksy, and since the summoning only would last until midnight if Angel didn’t dismiss him, he’d want to do the ritual earlier in the day. 

Little of the list was what he had expected. Well, the radio made sense. And the human blood. The more he thought about it, the more each piece slotted into place — but little was part of the “stereotypical” demon summoning circle he had been expecting — including the lack of a circle. 

It wasn’t that Angel had  _ forgotten _ the promise Alastor had made literal years ago. He’d tried to put it out of his mind after he woke up on his fourteenth birthday with his eye gone dark and teeth across his shoulder, but losing the thread of excitement he had hung onto for so long wasn’t easy. There had always been something extra about his eighteenth birthday, and not only that his side gig would become slightly less illegal (though not by much. Prostitution and homosexuality were still up there). 

The next couple of days went on normally but with a touch of added excitement — though a few things vanished from around the house. Most notably, the kitchen radio, and a finger or two of Henry’s nice whiskey. Henry himself left for Albany the day before Angel’s birthday with his uncle, which was almost a better present than Alastor’s. 

The sun rose just before 6:30AM on Angel’s birthday, shining through his window and directly onto his eyes, waking him up. He rolled over blearily, yawned into his pillow, and nearly fell asleep again before the sunlight registered in his brain. The window was open for a reason. 

Angel was out of bed within moments. 

-=-=-=-

_ Hope you’re awake, asshole _

**I am, in fact, though I did not expect you to be up so early as well. Happy birthday, mon ange**

_ Yeah yeah, fuck you. You can tell me once you get here, I’m just hitting you with a heads up.  _

**A “heads up” is usually to prevent getting hit.**

_ Oh just be quiet _

-=-=-=-

__ With a quiet chuckle, Alastor got up from his seat and stood in the middle of the room to await his angel’s summons. He had already told Niffty that he would be out for the day and cleared his schedule, so he was completely free. And then — there was that tugging in his gut, the feeling of free falling into his own shadow without his control, no less disorienting the second time it happened. Static crackled, and the air cooled by several degrees and gained the sickly metallic scent of blood. Immediately, Alastor could identify the windowpane feeling for being a shadow. 

He blinked open eyes that Alastor hadn’t even realized he had closed. 

The pair of soulmates had already exchanged general descriptions after Alastor’s death several years prior, so he knew who he was looking at, at the very least. His angel had pale skin scattered with freckles like stars, thin blond hair that he wore a bit longer than the fashion, fringe brushed out of his face, and light brown eyes wide in shock. One of his wrists was bleeding freely, and he clutched a knife in the opposite hand. 

“Smiles?” He asked, tilting his head, and Alastor’s chest  _ ached _ . 

“Angel,” Alastor breathed, and solidified in Angel’s room. He towered over the boy, who was kneeling on the floor for the summoning ritual, and bent down quickly. Angel sipped from the glass on the floor, made a face, and then passed it to Alastor, who narrowed his eyes at the smell of gunpowder emanating from the liquor inside. Still, he took a sip, and stepped away from the summoning ritual with a sigh of relief. “So, you summoned me. What would you like to do?” 

“Suck your dick,” Angel blurted out, and then whipped a hand over his mouth — thankfully not the one holding the knife, or he might have well stabbed himself in the face. It  _ was  _ the one which was still bleeding, and he got blood all over his collar. 

Alastor’s static screeched, and he choked on a laugh. “Perhaps not,” he managed. 

“Oh god, oh fuck, please forget I said that,” Angel grinned, hands slipping down from his face as he also began to crack up. “Please just — it’s an impulse,  _ shut up _ .” 

“My my, Anthony. What an offer! I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” he teased, to induce more of Angel’s breathless giggling. “Oh mon cher, did you not treat your cut before summoning me here? Don’t you have a medical kit?”

“Wow, fuck me for being excited ta finally get to see ya.” Angel rolled his eyes, still laughing. “It’s right here, just gimme a second.” 

Reaching out a hand, Alastor shook his head. “No no, let me.” Hesitantly, Angel let Alastor catch hold of his wrist, and held his breath as neon green light lit up the wound as it healed over. The action numbed Alastor’s fingertips and he pulled away — his powers were shaped to destroy, not to heal. 

Feeling Alastor heal his cut was sort of what cemented his soulmate as not being a dream or a hallucination. It tingled oddly, like he was being rubbed with velvet made from needles, went hot and then cold in quick succession, and the stinging pain vanished. Angel didn’t think his brain was creative enough to come up with something like that, even if he was high. 

Alastor towered over him by over a foot, and was… mostly humanoid, though not enough to pass as one. His skin was too grey, his smile too wide, his waist too thin, and his sclera were blood red. Not to mention the large furry red ears perched on top of his head, and the small antlers too. 

“If ya want to do anything, ya might wanna look less, uh, demon-y?” Angel suggested. “Course we could also just stay in, I don’t have nothin’ I  _ hafta _ do today.” 

“Don’t worry, angel. I can do something of an illusion for the day.” And before his very eyes, Alastor shifted — shortened, filled out, his hair shortened and gelled back into a swoop, and his skin regained color. He blinked and his eyes changed from red to dark brown, and he was suddenly only about an inch taller than angel was. Alastor examined the back of his hands pensively. “This is what I looked like when I was alive,” he commented. “I lived like this for my entire life, but all of a sudden it feels quite strange. Well, shall we?” 

“Uh, yeah.” Angel coughed, his throat suddenly dry as he looked Alastor up and down. He frantically willed himself not to blush. “Sure, let’s go an’ have breakfast? Molly should be expectin’ you.”

He led the way downstairs, his heart pounding with nerves, or something like it. Now that Alastor was actually  _ there _ , he wasn’t sure what to say or do. Molly was waiting though, and at last he could fall into the familiarity of making introductions to save them from the silence. 

“Heya, Molls, I got ‘im!” He cheered, hopping over the railing when there were just a few steps left. “Look, it’s smiles!” 

“I can see that.” Molly looked Alastor up and down, far more critically than Angel had done so. “Happy birthday, ya dingus.” 

“Happy birthday yourself.” He grinned and pulled her into a hug. “Aight, Al, this is my twin sista Molly. She’s alright I guess.”

“I’m so sorry you got stuck with this asshole for a soulmate,” Molly apologized, and giggled madly when Angel smacked her over the back of her head. “Hey, Tony! There’s pins in there! Sharp!” 

“It’s what ya deserve,” he retorted. 

“No it’s not, it’s my birthday, ya gotta treat me with respect,” she teased back. “I’m the birthday gal.” 

“Sure toots. If we’re playin’ by those rules then ya can’t call me an asshole cus it’s also  _ my  _ birthday.  _ And _ I’m older. Respect ya fuckin’ elders, Molly.” 

Alastor looked on in amusement as the siblings bickered playfully. Angel had only ever said good things about his sister, and he was glad to see them… well, he was hesitant to say “getting along”, but there was clearly deep affection there. His angel deserved all the affection in the world, especially if Alastor was not around to give it himself, in person. The sibling he was more wary of was Ari, Angel’s older brother — Angel’s emotions on Ari tended to be mixed, a blend of upset rants and casual affection. Thus, Alastor’s feelings were mixed too, and he both dreaded and eagerly awaited that particular first impression. 

Then, speak of the devil, the third Ragno sibling poked his head out of the dining room with one eyebrow raised. “Molly, ya fuckin’ bacon is going ta burn,” he called. 

“Ah shit.” Molly raced back to the kitchen with a groan, and Angel turned to Al, his smile wide. 

“Come on, I’ll introduce you ta Ari proper,” Angel said, holding out his hand. “And Molly makes the best pancakes, at least, even if she burns the bacon.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Stolas is easily bribed, just not by anything Alastor is willing to offer. Al isn’t exactly Stolas’s type, either.   
> 2) I wrote out an entire summoning ritual for Alastor in a notebook, if anyone’s curious I’ll put it in next chapter’s AN.  
> 3) FUCK they finally get to FUCKING interact in person. I’ve been waiting for this for months. Will it last though....? (The answer is no) 
> 
> Gah I wish I had more time to write, but this is all you’re getting this chapter. Please leave a comment, they’re highly appreciated <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is pure fluff, literally just. Fluffy domestic nonsense. I love them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!! I hope that in these trying times you’re in the mood for some tooth-rotting fluff, because that’s all you’re getting this chapter lm a o
> 
> No content warnings this chapter, though if you spot something let me know!

It was good to spend time together, though writing to each other didn’t translate perfectly into interacting face to face. Conversation was stilted, but the novelty of looking up and seeing the other’s face hadn’t worn off, and Angel mourned the fact that he wouldn’t have the chance to get used to it. Emotions didn’t play across Alastor’s face, only that incessant smile that Angel found impossible to read. The man backed away from physical affection and any touch he wasn’t the initiator of, and Angel had to consciously keep his hands to himself, as he was by nature something of a touchy-feely person. At least the banter came second nature, and the ability to drag a bit on as long as they wanted without being conscious of space was like a breath of fresh air. 

Alastor found Angel equally intriguing, and as Angel began to pull away, he began to push back. A brush of gloves across his angel’s arm here, a protective hand on his lower back there. 

“Don’t be an asshole, Ari,” Angel shot back with a grin. He didn’t acknowledge Alastor’s touch outside of leaning into it a bit. 

“What’cha want me to do, let ‘em turn inta charcoal?” Ari scoffed, leaning back with his signature scowl. “Sure, happy fuckin’ birthday Tony, here’s your breakfast burnt to a goddamn crisp in celebration of becomin’ an adult. It could prolly poison you if ya tried hard enough.”

“Aww, you don’t wanna poison me? That’s already an improvement from last year! I’m so honored.” 

“Hey  _ idioti _ , come take these dishes to the table!” Molly called from the doorway into the kitchen. Alastor stood up and she glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Not you, smiles. Guests don’t do chores in this household, cus we’re half-decent hosts.”

Angel shrugged awkwardly at the look Alastor gave him. “Ya didn’t tell me your name for too long, and it stuck,” he muttered.

Breakfast consisted of bacon, fried eggs, pancakes and maple syrup, sliced pears, and coffee. Alastor made a face along with Ari as he watched Angel dump an inordinate amount of sugar and cream into his, and Angel stuck his tongue out back when he noticed Alastor drink his own coffee black. He noted, with interest, the other Ragno siblings’ coffee preferences — Molly with just cream, and Ari with a spoonful of maple syrup, oddly enough. 

“So what’re you two gonna do today?” Molly asked. 

“Dunno, haven’t decided yet. Might drop by Connie an’ Eva’s place later though.” Angel hummed to himself in consideration. “You?” 

“I’m stuck with Ari,” Molly answered.

Ari rolled his eyes. “Pops asked me ta keep an eye on you two so ya don’t get into any trouble an’ die or some shit. I’m lettin’ ya have this one though, Tony, so long as smiles does my job for me.” 

“Yes, I will endeavor to keep your brother out of trouble,” Alastor agreed. “He is rather adept at thwarting such attempts, though.” 

Angel made an offended face as he tried to swallow his bite of breakfast as quickly as possible so that he could speak. “Hey, no— hey!” He protested. “The trouble fuckin’ comes ta  _ me _ . Ain’t my fault I’m irresistible~” 

The entire table gave Angel an unimpressed look, and he collapsed strategically into Molly’s side. She patted him on the head with an eye roll and zero sympathy whatsoever. 

-=-=-=-

“Connie an’ Eva’s, lunch and cake at home, get drinks and dance tonight— not at One-Eyed Tiger though, I usually work birthdays so I gotta avoid Mista Gigante.” Angel counted off on his fingers as he finished brushing his hair with his other hand. Alastor stood just inside the doorway, leaning against the wall and watching his soulmate speak with a soft smile. The mid morning sun came in through the still-open window and glinted around Angel’s countenance, turning the edges of his hair pale gold and his eyes into amber honey. “That’s not that much stuff, we could just go out in the afternoon an’ not come back. What’cha wanna do in the morning?” 

“Whatever you’d like, my angel,” Alastor answered, his smile widening as Angel turned to him with annoyance written plain across his face. “It is your birthday, after all.” 

“That was  _ incredibly _ fuckin’ unhelpful, Al.” Angel practically pouted at him. “Ya don’t have  _ any _ human hobbies ya miss? Or somethin’ ya can’t do now that you’re a big ol’ overlord now, for fear of the public eye? We could dress ya up as a ghost and convince people the Smilin’ Killa came back from the dead — it’s been a few years but I think it still might work.” 

“While that would certainly be amusing, it would be rather unsportsmanlike to hunt humans, at this point,” Alastor laughed. “What do you normally get up to, my angel?” 

“Eh. I dance or somethin’,” Angel said. He stepped away from his vanity and made his way to Alastor, standing just inside the older man’s personal space. “Like I said, I usually  _ work _ on birthdays. Ya know, take clients. We could, uh, bake something? I could lug the old phonograph upstairs and we could listen to your old recordings? I still have those, by tha way.”

Alastor nearly winced. “Baking then. I can show you how to make beignets — my mother’s were the best in New Orleans.”

“Sure.” he rocked back and forth on his heels, hands locked behind his back. At close range, their small height difference was far more noticeable. “Not your best work? I thought they were fine.”

“Hardly even close.” Alastor shook his head, taking a step off the wall. Angel stopped rocking. They were close enough that the toes of their shoes were hardly an inch apart. “Well. Shall we?”

Angel took a couple steps back with a grin, latching onto Alastor’s arm when it was offered to him. “Let’s~”

-=-=-=-

“Would you like to get all our ingredients out while I bloom the yeast?” Alastor asked, rolling up his sleeves. “Since you know where everything is?” 

“Sure, that sounds fine.”

“Do I hear the sounds of baking going on in there?” Molly asked, walking into the kitchen. “It is! What’re you two makin’?” 

“Mind ya own damn business, it’s a surprise,” Angel said, removing his head from the cupboard to look at his sister. “Weren’t you gonna go shopping or somethin’? Leave!”

“This place betta be exactly the way I left it when we get back,” she warned them, before retreating out the door as Ari called her name from the other room. “I’m baking a cake for afta lunch, and I’ll be needing everything you’re currently rubbin’ your grimy hands all over.” 

“I can assure you that we both washed our hands quite thoroughly, Miss Molly,” Alastor said calmly as he stuck his finger into the pot of water to test for temperature. He took it off the stove with a satisfied smile. “We’ll clean up the kitchen while they’re cooling.” 

“What Al said, now scram. Also, where’d ya put the measuring cups after breakfast?” 

“Dish rack, they’re drying,” Molly called back. “Anythin’ ya want me ta pick up while I’m out, Tony?” 

“Nothing I can think of.” Angel set down the bag of flour on the counter with a huff. “Actually, can ya get me a thing ‘a granola? I’ll pay ya back.” 

“Sure, I’ll put it in your bag when I get home.” 

“ _ Grazie, _ Molls.” A shuffle, the sound of the front door opening and closing, and Angel and Alastor were alone in the house. “Aight, what’s next?” 

“Alright, while we’re waiting for this to proof, we ought to separate the eggs. Do you by chance have a stand mixer?” 

-=-=-=-

Cooking with Alastor was surprisingly fun, conversation flowing easily when the silence was so easily broken by what they were doing. The finished beignets cooled on the dining table while Alastor carefully strained the oil back into its container, magically cooling it as he did so, and Angel started on the dishes. Though Alastor’s ambient static had been muted when he magicked himself to look human for the day, he let it filter through into a bit of soft jazz, and Angel hummed along. 

He turned off the water and dried his hands before combing his hair out of his face impatiently. Alastor had finished and started wiping down the counter, so Angel busied himself with putting things away. 

“Do ya think they’re cool enough to try yet?” he asked, gaze dragging back to the small pile of doughnuts. “The entire kitchen smells great and I want ta know if they came out as well as they look.” 

“If you would like to try, mon ange, be my guest,” Alastor answered, not even turning around. “But if you burn your mouth, that’s on yourself.” 

Angel let out a groan that turned itself into a sort of whine. “At this point I’m starting ta think it’d be worth it, not gonna lie. I’m starvin’.” He saw Alastor visibly pause and smirked, before his expression was pushed more into the realm of eyes-wide-in-shock by Alastor’s next words. 

“Hello,  _ Starving _ , I’m Alastor,” he answered smoothly, his grin audible in his voice and amusement palpable. “Though I was under the impression that your name was Anthony.” 

Angel blinked. Slowly. “Are ya  _ fuckin  _ serious,” he said, deadpan. 

“No, mon cher.” He turned around, grin only widening when he saw the incredulous disbelief written plain across Angel’s face. “I just told you that my name was Alastor. And I am afraid I am not currently bedding anyone.” 

Alastor was saved by the sound of a key getting shoved into the front door, and Angel tensed before he realized it was just Molly and Ari coming home as their voices, albeit rather muffled, floated into the house. 

“What is that  _ smell? _ ” Molly exclaimed the second she stepped into the house. “What in the world have you two been gettin’ up to?  _ Something _ smells delicious in here.” 

“I know, right? And Al hasn’t even let me try one yet!” Angel complained back, blocking his sister’s way as she beelined towards the stack. “They’re still too hot, or whateva.” 

“It’s been twenty or so minutes since they came out of the oil, you’ll most likely be fine,” Alastor said, glancing nonchalantly at the clock. “They are best served as fresh as possible after all, and leaving them for even a few hours will make them hard, stale, and altogether rather unappetizing. They’re said to be best with powdered sugar, Miss Molly.” 

“ _ You absolute fucker _ !” Angel shrieked, as Molly cheered and snatched one off the top of the pile, dunking it into the bowl of sugar. He grabbed one too, furiously shaking it at his laughing soulmate before dipping it into the bowl as well. “You— how could you!? The absolute  _ betrayal _ !” 

“My darling angel, if I had let you eat one any sooner, by the time your siblings returned there wouldn’t be a single one left.” He strolled over to the table and reached over Angel’s sugar-covered hands to take his own, ignoring the sugar altogether. “Delicious, as I expected. Though just a touch too sweet for my tastes.” 

Ari, having been in the parlor shedding his jacket, ducked underneath his siblings in order to get to the platter they were all crowded around. “Pretty good,” he commented. “Is this just what we’re eatin’ for lunch? I wouldn’t complain. Where’s the suga?” 

-=-=-=-

Lunch was a lighter affair, since none of them were particularly hungry after three or so beignets, even if they were mostly air. Molly and Angel made sandwiches while Alastor hung around the kitchen and Ari left to go work on something else. It wasn’t  _ his  _ birthday, and he still had mob business to do. The oldest Ragno sibling was already twenty-two, and while he clearly preferred to do field work, Henry insisted on trying to train him up to be a boss. Being the best sniper in the syndicate didn’t mean shit if he couldn’t run papers too. 

“Alright, now it’s my turn to chase ya out ‘a the kitchen,” Molly told them as she started to take out the baking stuff again. “Take your food and leave, you two. Bye.” 

“Not even a hint as ta what kinda cake you’re makin’?” Angel whined, hopping up onto the kitchen counter and peering at the ingredients. 

“Absolutely not, get your bottom off the counter.” She smacked him on the arm with a dish towel and a scolding look. “That’s where the food is about to go, Tony. Ya want ya eat butt-food?”

He stared at her, trying to hide his grin behind a deadpan look and not succeeding in the  _ least _ . “Is that a question ya really want answered, Molls?”

“ _ Gross _ !” She smacked him again as he started snickering and then full out laughing. “ _ Absolutely _ not, leave at once. You’ve been  _ evicted _ . Nope.  _ Out! _ ”

And like that, the two were kicked out of the kitchen with little fanfare, Alastor barely having time to remind Molly they had an extra egg white left over that she was free to use. 

With a sigh, Alastor sat heavily down on one of the sofas, and motioned Angel closer with one hand before he sat down somewhere further away. It was clear that his soulmate was much more a fan of physical affection than he was, but Alastor was happy to make allowances. Once the invitation was extended, Angel fell easily into his side, and let Alastor’s arm fall around his waist as he rested his head on the older man’s shoulder. Tilting his head, Alastor leaned over to brush his lips over the crown of Angel’s head with a smile. 

Angel’s eyes blinked closed, and he found himself almost beginning to doze off as the early morning and high-energy excitement of the day began to catch up with him. He could hear the quiet crackle of static contained under Alastor’s skin, and the arm around him was like a shield and a blanket, protective and comforting all at once. Perhaps he ought to have been memorizing the feel and warmth of the body underneath him, the radio crackle in his ear, but instead, slowly and lightly, Angel simply fell asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Angel and Ari are definitely the sweet tooths of the family and you can’t convince me otherwise.   
> 2) beignets are delicious and whatever Cafe Du Monde does to make theirs is literally witchcraft. Alastor’s are at /least/ that good, and Elinor’s are probably better, if that’s possible.   
> 3) a good couple of you asked for Alastor’s summoning ritual, so here is that!
> 
> \- a cross of fresh blood (ideally human, deer would also work. —> Represents crossroads [loa] and a stereotypical summoning circle [demon]  
> \- a radio is placed in the center of the cross —> the closer that radio is to what Alastor would have owned, the better.   
> \- call him by name —> ensures you aren’t getting someone random  
> \- also you have to really want him to be there. A Lot. If you do everything perfectly right but there’s no conviction, nothing will happen —> Shane Madej and his skeptic friends couldn’t summon him (or anything)  
> \- in order to make a deal with him/let him out of the circle, you mix gunpowder into (nice) whiskey and you both drink out of the same glass —> another reference to the Loa, but Alastor prefers whiskey to rum. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Please leave a comment, they’re highly appreciated. And as always, much love <3


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel’s 18th birthday — part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, sorry for the long-ish wait (I know a week and a half isn’t actually that long but I’m still gonna apologize so shut up)~ I’m actually on vacation right now, so I’m just trying to grab time to write in between hikes and before bed :P 
> 
> Some notices:  
> \- the rating might just up to explicit in the next chapter or two. If you were hoping for Radiodust smut though, no luck yet  
> \- Blood on Your Hands going on break for another few weeks so I can work on some other fics, since I have to keep up an upload schedule with one (+ I was hit with a plot bunny so... maybe that too). You’ll be more disappointed about this later. 
> 
> CW for this chapter: Underage drinking, I guess?

Alastor brushed the pad of his thumb across Angel’s cheekbone, and tried to convey how much he treasured Angel through that one motion. He counted the freckles that passed under his fingertips, dark spots like reverse stars and just as beautiful. Static crackled under his skin, and Angel was leaning into the touch before he even opened his eyes, blinking lazily and cat-like up at him. His left sclera was pitch black around the warm brown of his iris, but his eyes were narrowed and affectionate and content, despite the mark of tragedy. Alastor’s thumb migrated up to Angel’s eye gently, and Angel hummed as his eyes closed again under Alastor’s touch, almost as if he was purring. 

“You two’re gross,” Molly commented from the doorway, and both turned to look at her. “The cake is out ‘a the oven and ta be honest I can’t be bothered to cool an’ ice it, so you can just smear frostin’ across warm cake with your fork or somethin’?”

“Sure,” Angel said, yawning as he stretched across the back of the couch. Alastor stood up, and Angel took the hand offered to him to stand as well, raising his eyebrows with a grin. “I’m inta cake. Ya wanna help smear icin’ on my cake, Al?”

“ _ Stop! _ ” Protested Molly, going ignored. “Fuckin’ disgusting—  _ Tony! _ ”

“I’m afraid I do not know your pastry preferences, mon ange,” Alastor answered, eyes glinting as he pushed Angel towards the kitchen. “Also, I’m afraid Miss Molly is going to have an aneurysm if you get much more vulgar than that.”

“He’s right, asshole,” she scolded, smacking his brother hard on the shoulder. “Flirt on your own goddamn time when I ain’t in tha room, ya just had a full hour ta be  _ this way _ outa my sight.”

“I wasn’t bein’  _ vulgar _ ,” Angel protested. “ _ Ow _ Molls, fuck you, I was nappin’. Don’t fuckin’ hit people.”

“I just baked you a cake, I can smack ya as hard as I fuckin’ want, especially if you’re bein’ an asshole.” Molly caught the look flashing across her brother’s face less than a second before he opened his mouth, and immediately cut him off. “And don’t cha  _ dare _ turn that into another euphemism, it’s my birthday and I don’t deserve any ‘a this bullshit.” 

“I wasn’t gonna—” Angel slumped backwards against Alastor’s hands, eyes fluttering closed. “ _ Ooooooh _ that smells so good! Espresso chocolate cake?”

“With whip cream frosting and strawberries,” Molly told him proudly. 

“Molly, you’re a fuckin’ genius and I’m sorry for anythin’ I ever done ta wrong ya,” Angel said, spinning farther into the kitchen with a brilliant smile. “This is brilliant and I love you.”

“Damn right ya should.” 

-=-=-=-

After eating yet more sugar, Molly packed a section of the cake for Angel to take with them to Connie and Eva’s apartment. The pair no longer worked at the One-Eyed Tiger, but now lived together in a small apartment a relatively short subway ride away. Angel kept his hands to himself while they were out, vaguely anxious about being in public. The easiest assumption was that Alastor was simply a family friend or some such thing, and the excuse that he worked under Angel’s father was on the tip of his tongue during the entire train ride. He— he knew he shouldn’t care or whatever, but turning off the part of his brain that cared what other people thought wasn’t easy unless he was already high. 

Alastor noticed the way Angel threw up a shield easily — it was a stark difference from the way he behaved around his siblings, throwing himself into rooms and conversations, a whirlwind of speech and hands that skidded across surfaces. Now those hands were shoved into the pockets of his trousers and his shoulders were tense even as Angel leaned back casually in his seat. The difference between what Angel looked like when he was acting relaxed and then he was  _ actually  _ relaxed was… conspicuous. Still, Alastor didn’t mention it, and the rest of the train ride went by silently. 

After a few knocks, the door to the apartment opened on a young woman with curly black hair tied back from her face, wearing a white dress with a pink and green floral print — Constance. The inside of their apartment was sparsely furnished, but not lightly decorated. Colorful scarves were tacked onto the walls, along with records, glossy magazine covers, and posters. Little trinkets like mugs and champagne bottle corks and small green plants were scattered on shelves where there weren’t any books. 

Her eyes flickered over Alastor first, before turning to Angel. 

“Anthony! Lovie, Anthony’s here!” She called into the apartment as she ushered the two inside. “Happy birthday, hun! And uh, who’s this fellow you’ve brought along?” 

“Oh, this is Alastor! We’ve been goin’ steady for…” he trailed off, wondering how long their interactions had been straying over from purely platonic. Angel was flirtatious by nature, especially before Alastor had died, as well as more recently, but he couldn’t pinpoint an exact moment that Alastor had started flirting back. “Uh. A while? He was stayin’ over for my birthday, so I figured I’d take him ta come an’ meet you two. Al, this is Connie.” 

Connie’s eyes lingered on Alastor suspiciously over Angel’s shoulder, and he bowed to her instinctively before realizing it was kind of weird. “Ms. Constance,” he addressed her respectfully. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Anthony has told many things about you — all good, of course.”

“Mmhmm,” she replied, raising an eyebrow, before her own soulmate came in. 

“Hey lovie,” Eva said, leaning on her soulmate’s shoulders with a soft smile. “Hi Tony, happy birthday.”

Angel finished the struggle of hanging up his coat while holding onto the cake box, and turned around with a grin. “Thanks Eva! This is for you guys, by the way — Molls baked an entire cake, so she made me bring some over for ya. It’s… coffee, chocolate, and strawberries, I think?” He glanced at Alastor for confirmation, who nodded. “Yeah. It’s real good.” 

“Oh, lovely!” Eva peeked inside the box before setting it down on the kitchen table. “Bring Molly over next time, I’ll have ta thank her in person. It looks wonderful! You two want anything ta drink?”

“Just water is fine,” Alastor answered, and Angel shook his head. 

“So, Alastor. How long have ya known Anthony?” Connie asked. Alastor turned to Angel, not sure how to answer the question, but his soulmate just shrugged. 

“Quite some time now, although I did not start courting him until much more recently,” he said, locking his hands behind his back as he put on a grin. “However, much of our communication has been through writing — my hometown is actually New Orleans, but Anthony invited me up to celebrate his birthday.” At Angel’s snicker, he raised an eyebrow, gradually drifting towards the other. “What’s so funny, my dear?” 

“Ya know ya can just like, say words, right?” Angel teased. “No need ta beat ‘round tha bush.” 

“I’m not quite sure what you mean, angel,” Alastor said reproachfully. “I’m afraid you will have to clarify.” 

He laughed. “Ya know smiles, you’d be sweet if ya didn’t lie directly to my face,” Angel said. He offered Alastor a hand, and once it was taken, pulled them both down to sit on the couch. Alastor pressed a kiss to the back of Angel’s hand with a smile. 

“Smiles?” Eva asked, furrowing her eyebrows. She handed Alastor his glass and he took it with a nod of thanks. “As in your soulmate? I haven’t heard ya talk ‘bout him since—” 

“Four years ago,” Connie finished. “Ya came in with your eye… ya didn’t mention it, so no one else did either. He—  _ you’re _ … alive?”

“Not exactly,” Angel replied, grinning. “He did say I invited him  _ up _ — but that’s up  _ literally _ . And metaphorically. Kinda?  _ Up _ in a way that doesn’t mean north. Wait, is Hell even actually below us?” 

“Both yes and no. My understanding is that if you dug down, you would not reach Hell, but the plane of existence which Hell resides on is at least one plane below this one, with Kalfu’s Nothing somewhere in the middle.” 

“Sure,” Eva said mildly. “So what’s Hell like?” 

Connie blinked at her soulmate, incredulous. “ _ What? _ ” 

-=-=-=-

“Have fun you two!” Eva said, leaning against the wall near the door. “Stay safe. Remember ta tell your sister thanks for me, Tony.” 

“Of course,” Alastor replied. 

“Not too much fun though,” Connie teased. “Come an’ visit again soon, aight? It was nice ta meet’cha, Alastor.” 

“Aww, there’s no such thing as too much fun, Connie,” Angel said. “Let us leave, the sun’s goin’ down and we’re tryin’ to get there before it’s too late and Al’s gotta be goin’.” 

They left the apartment after exchanging goodbyes, and hurried down to the ground floor. The sun was setting outside, sending streaks of orange, purple, and gold across the sky as the shadows around them deepened. Alastor had missed sunsets like this — the sky in Hell was always blood red, and as much as he enjoyed the shade, the abundance of painted colors on this plane was sorely missed. His grin sharpened as he caught himself thinking, slightly irritated. The day was making him sentimental.

“They took that better than I would have thought,” Alastor murmured as they walked together. 

“Honestly same, but might as well tell ‘em, right? I mean, it’s not as if they can deny it — the evidence is right in front ‘a their eyes,” Angel giggled. “Besides, now Connie’ll stop tryin’ ta set me up with whateva random Joe Schmoe.” 

“If you say so, my angel,” he hummed. “I suppose you know best, since they’re  _ your _ friends.” 

Angel hailed a cab, letting go of Alastor’s hand now that they were on the streets again. He eyed the darkening sky a bit nervously, as it was getting dark quicker than he had hoped, though they would still be able to spend some time out before they had to return home at midnight. They climbed into the taxi and he gave the driver his home address, catching Alastor’s amused smile in his peripheral vision at the way the cab driver’s eyes widened in recognition. 

They arrived home and Alastor stepped out of the taxi first, coming around the car to open the door for Angel to get out as well. Instead of going to Angel’s own room however, Alastor followed him with some confusion to Molly’s bedroom, where Angel threw open the closet door with a grin. 

“Molly lets me keep my dresses in here, since pops would kill me if he found ‘em in my room,” he explained. “It’s too risky to leave ‘em out in the open, and I don’t wanna ruin ‘em by crumplin’ them up ta wrinkle or some shit. It don’t matter if there’s another dress in Moll’s closet once in a while though. Since I’m goin’ out with you tonight though, it ain’t like I can wear a suit.” 

“Does your father look through your closet?” Alastor asked, faintly confused. He watched Angel pull out a dress, purse his lips, and put it back. 

With a shrug, Angel picked out a lacy black dress and laid it out on the bed. “Yeah, regular checks. Just to make sure I’m not hidin’ anything, since I’ve gotten caught with PCP or coke once or twice. There’s a bunch of stuff I’m not supposed to keep in my bedroom,” he told Alastor. “It’s fine though. I either don’t botha or I’ve figured out how ta hide shit well already. Work stuff’s in here, since I don’t need ta access it unless pops already ain’t at home, and everythin’ else—” he shrugged again. “I manage.” 

“Well, I suppose that works,” he said. “That being said, it’s very kind of your sister to let you use her space.”

“Yeah, well. Molly’s just nice like that.” 

Cheerfully shameless, Angel began to undress, putting his clothes on Molly’s vanity so that he wouldn’t forget to take them out of her room with him. The dress he’d picked out was black and silky against his skin, with a layer of sheer black lace laying on top of it, which also made up the sleeves and high collar. The sleeves themselves were slightly puffed and ended in flouncy ruffles above his elbows, and the neckline ended low on his chest. Though he couldn’t actually fill out the bodice, the way it was cut gave the impression of breasts nonetheless. Since it was early March and still rather cold out, Angel also took out Molly’s long gray fur-lined coat, which thankfully wouldn’t clash with his dress. 

Alastor watched his soulmate change with a fond smile. Though he didn’t experience attraction in the sexual sense, he still appreciated the view — the smooth planes of Angel’s back and the freckles that decorated his shoulders, the contrast of black lace against the pale skin of Angel’s neck. He successfully resisted the temptation to lean down and taste said skin, but while Angel was facing the closet he drifted silently over and placed his gloved hands on Angel’s upper arms where the sleeves ended. Angel jumped slightly under Alastor’s touch before looking over his shoulder. 

“What do ya think?” He asked quietly, leaning back against Alastor’s chest. 

“You look beautiful as always,” Alastor said, letting Angel turn around. “This dress is extraordinary on you,  _ mon ange _ .” 

“Aww, thanks Al~” Angel fluttered his eyelashes with a grin. “An’ I’m not even wearing make-up yet. Ya want ta move so I can get to tha vanity, or…?” 

Alastor moved, his fingers lingering. “Go right ahead, darling.” 

-=-=-=-

They took another cab to the Viper Club, a place far enough away from the One-Eyed Tiger that Angel hopefully wouldn’t be recognized by coworkers or past clients. It was still vaguely associated with the Ragnos, but he wasn’t nearly as familiar to their business partners as his father or brother. They made it there some time around nine-thirty, knowing that they need to leave at least half an hour before midnight. It wasn’t getting too busy yet so the line was short, and they were both quickly let inside. 

It was rather dim inside, and the muffled but still distinctive sound of jazz drew them further into the bar. A few couples were already dancing, but Angel dragged them both over to the bar first, their shoes clicking on the polished wood floor — Angel’s heels, and Alastor’s boots that he had magically installed with hoof-shaped taps some time ago. 

“I need a fuckin’ martini,” Angel groaned. “Wait, ya died before repeal day, right? Have ya ever had a propa drink?” 

“Speakeasies did exist,” Alastor reminded him primly. “And I lived in New Orleans.” He looked at the bartender with a smile. “I’ll have a whiskey old-fashioned, if you please?”

“And I’ll take a vodka martini, wet, stirred, twist,” Angel listed off, pitching his voice up but retaining all of the whine as he leaned into Alastor’s shoulder. Alastor gently pushed him off, though his smile was sharp. 

“Be polite, my dear,” he scolded quietly. 

“ _ Please _ ,” Angel added. 

Though it’s earlier in the night than the two would have preferred, the club was filling up quickly, and the atmosphere grew heady. In theory and knowing Angel’s chosen profession, Alastor was willing to overlook a couple appreciative eyes looking over his soulmate, even when the looks gravitated towards blatantly greedy. In practice however, Alastor’s hand landed warm and possessive on Angel’s lower back, prompting a confused glance. 

“You’re drawing quite a few looks,” Alastor commented, forcefully mild. 

“Awww, ya jealous, smiles? You ain’t the only one here who thinks I look stunnin’ in this dress,” he said with a laugh. “A bit of attention’s expected — I didn’t think ya’d mind?” 

“Angel, if I was then I would be rather offended on your behalf. You  _ are  _ stunning. I simply assumed that outside of Hell men would not be so…  _ openly lustful  _ about it.” 

“It’s helpful if I’m lookin’ for a John ta go home with,” Angel said, but wrapped an arm around Alastor’s waist as well. “Happy ta be your’s for tha evenin’ though.” 

The two found a table and sat down with their drinks as they watched the dance floor get more populated. The music was upbeat and the atmosphere grew gradually more high-energy as the night, in turn, grew later. Angel pulled a tab of pcp in a plastic bag out of his pocket idly before a hand on his own stopped him. 

“Feel free to indulge yourself after I’m gone, but I’d prefer if you were in your right mind for this evening, my angel,” Alastor interrupted him softly.

“Sure.” Angel went easily, leaning into Alastor as he pocketed the drug. Better not to risk having it so soon after drinking anyways. “Want ta dance, then?” 

“It would be my pleasure.” 

-=-=-=-

Alastor led a rather intoxicated Angel out of the club and waved down a taxi to take them back to the Ragnos’ residence. He didn’t fancy leaving a drunk Angel alone away from home when he returned to Hell, and it was only polite to escort his date home after a night out. Alcohol only made Angel more touchy-feely, and he nosed into Alastor’s neck for most of the ride back, murmuring something slurred and unintelligible in Italian into his ear — at least unintelligible to Alastor, who didn’t speak the language.

He pulled Angel out of the car with a thanks to the driver, who magically didn’t notice that Alastor hadn’t paid for the ride. The alcohol was on its way out of Angel’s system, leaving him pliable and affectionate, but mostly coherent. 

“Mmf, smiles?” Angel asked, peering up at Alastor with liquid amber eyes. 

“Yes,  _ mon ange _ ?” 

“How much longer do ya have?” 

He glanced at his watch, eyes glowing slightly red to see the hands of the clock in the dark. Nobody else was around to see the vaguely supernatural phenomenon, at least. “About two minutes, darling. Glad we got you home on time, hmm?” 

“Oh, perfect,” Angel murmured — Alastor’s only warning before there were lips on his, soft skin and the smell of orange zest and alcohol. Angel’s arms were up over his shoulders, their noses bumping inelegantly for half a second before Angel tilted his head with practiced ease. 

Unsure what to do, Alastor gripped Angel’s waist and let himself be kissed, before getting a grip and tentatively pressing back. After a few moments, or maybe an eternity, Angel slipped away and out of his grasp, looking at Alastor with those ethereal eyes. 

“We’re gonna have ta work on that,” he was saying, but Alastor’s eyes were caught on the figure behind him — a broad shouldered, dark haired man, who had just exited a car they hadn’t heard pull up. The look on his face was stormy, but Alastor only caught a glimpse of it before he was falling backwards, out of the living’s plane of existence, and back into his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I’m so fucking sorry for the cliffhanger, that was planned but I didn’t know I was going on break right after this chapter I’m /sorry/  
> 2) sexual innuendos are difficult  
> 3) feel like I should clarify that Connie isn’t Cherri Bomb? Idk if Cherri has a canon death year yet but she seems like she died in the early 2000s to me.   
> 4) Alastor is sex-positive/neutral asexual. That was his first kiss though which I think is very cash money of him (also I like how the sexual/relationship experience counteracts the age gap a bit :3) 
> 
> Anyways yikes. Thank you for reading, please leave a comment (highly appreciated) <3 also I feel like I should apologize again for the cliffhanger. Rough times, huh?


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back! But also not really... I’m still pretty busy and don’t have much time to write, but hopefully I can still get out another chapter or two this month. Thanks for your patience, you guys! 
> 
> Also the rating just changed to explicit, so watch out for that, lol. 
> 
> CW: drug use, abuse, rough sex (a little)

The music boomed uncomfortably in Angel’s ears and he curled his fingers over his thighs. His mind was foggy, all dark, heavy mist, and he was held still by the hand fisted in his hair and the cock repeatedly shoving itself down his throat. This, at least, was an activity that didn’t require him to think, that in fact erased all thoughts from his being. The tile floor was freezing cold, though he had been kneeling in the same place for some minutes, and pressed into his knees unforgivingly. That was fine though. The sensation was something he could focus on without thinking, and the further Angel was from conscious thought, the better. 

He was an object, just a toy to be used, no need for him to make decisions when the hand tugging harshly in his hair could make them for him. The cock in his mouth pulsed, slightly off beat to the music, and the man above him let out a low groan as he came in Angel’s mouth. Angel swallowed automatically, not making a face nor a sound at the taste. He stayed kneeling as the man pulled out, a tiny dribble of cum escaping past his lips before Angel caught it on his gloved finger. 

Angel wiped his hand on the man’s scuffed leather shoes before turning it upwards. “Pay up,” he rasped. His voice was wrecked. 

Still kneeling, the man’s face outside his line of sight, Angel felt rather than saw a few bills get pressed into his hand. He closed his fingers around them and brought his hand back into his lap without bothering to count them. It didn’t matter.

He was pushed out of the way, and the man pulled his pants back up and excited the bathroom, heading back into the main room of the bar without even washing his hands. Angel stood up unsteadily, putting the money into a pocket hidden in his dress. The black lace was definitely ruined, or at least badly ripped and stretched — kneeling on the floor couldn’t have treated it too kindly. Nor would have falling onto the rocky gravel of his driveway, watching his room get torn apart, seeing shards of vinyl and scraps of fabric that he had spent weeks sewing late at night, a hand fisted in his skirt and ripping— 

Unsteadily, legs slightly cramping, Angel made his way to the sinks and turned on the faucet. He removed his gloves with trembling fingers and washed his face and hands with cold water, too impatient to wait for it to turn warm. After drying them as well as he could with scratchy paper towels, Angel dug through his pockets for the tab of PCP, craving the freedom of disassociation, and no longer caring how long it had been since his last drink. Thinking was too much, and he just… couldn’t. 

Thirty minutes before the drug kicked in, and Angel used it to stumble out of the bar, half playing drunk, and half truly unsteady. What time was it, and where was he? His vision was foggy, unfocused, and the clock on the wall on the other side of the bar was too far away to read. People were leaving the bars down the street in swarms, so it had to have been relatively late. Or early. Something like that. 

The events of the past few hours felt like an eternity, moving in slow motion while he was experiencing them, and at the same time like an instant, a flash of lightning. Bright fiery destruction, leaving Angel a pile of charred splinters that continued to burn as thunder rumbled deafeningly around him. 

Right on time, the clouds that had been blotting out the moon and stars opened up, and it began to rain. 

-=-=-=-

The sky was grey and bright with the sunrise’s eminent arrival when Ari found Angel passed out deep in an alleyway. He was disheveled, streaked with grime in places, and wearing a badly torn black dress Ari hadn’t even know he had owned. With a shake of his head Ari sat down on the ground, mindless of how dirty the ground was, and jabbed his brother in the thigh to wake him up. 

Angel jerked awake, choked on a breath and his own saliva, and immediately had a coughing fit. He squinted at Ari in the pre-dawn light, glanced around at his surroundings, and groaned. “What.” 

“Pops sent me ta find you,” Ari said. Angel blinked, eyes darting away for half a second as thoughts flashed through his mind, before he looked back at his brother’s face. 

“Well, here I am, ya found me,” he answered. “Now what.” 

Ari shook his head. “No I didn’t. I’m about ta spend another hour an’ a half lookin’ after leaving this alleyway, before returnin’ home having found no trace ‘a you.” Angel nodded slowly, and Ari took off the duffle bag he was wearing and handed it to him. “Are ya functionin’ outside ‘a bein’ hungova? Can get yourself somewhere that isn’t this dingy alleyway?” 

“Yeah, I can,” Angel answered. “Connie and Eva’s place. They’ll let me crash for a couple of nights.” 

“Good. I salvaged some of your things from your room. Just essentials — a few changes of clothing, toiletries, a good knife, your pistols and ammo. The granola Molly bought for ya yesterday too, can’t let that go ta waste.” Ari tilted his head, and brought out an opened and slightly bloodstained envelope from his own messenger bag. “And… this. Alastor’s summoning instructions.” 

Angel froze, his eyes locking onto the letter. Logically he knew he should take it, hold onto it until one day he had the chance to use it again. At some point though, the line of communication between his brain and his hand had ended, and he didn’t think he could raise his arm to take it if he tried. Instead, Angel shook his head. 

“Just get rid of it,” he said, turning away as Ari put the duffle bag on the ground. “Or keep it, I guess, I don’t care. But I don’t need it.” 

Wordlessly, Ari retracted his hand back to his side and stood up. “Get yourself somewhere safe before Uncle comes looking for you, alright Tony? Think about it before you decide whether or not to come home.” 

When Angel just nodded at him, Ari turned and left his brother in the alleyway, the summoning letter still clutched in his fist. He stuffed it into a dumpster at the entrance of the alley and paused, parting words just behind his teeth and ready to be spat out. Instead, he just swallowed them and moved on. After all, he still had half a city to scour for his wayward brother before the fool escaped the Ragnos’ territory altogether. 

-=-=-=-

Eva had taken one look at Angel’s disheveled hair, his dress with the lace completely ruined and fabric ripped beyond repair, the black circles under his eyes, and let him inside. He couldn’t tell her what happened, beyond the fact that he couldn’t go home, and she didn’t push. Just let him use their bathroom to clean up and put water on the stove to boil for coffee. Angel fell asleep again on the couch, dressed in more comfortable clothing and with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The two or three hours he had spent unconscious in an alleyway hadn’t done him any good, but the nap and mug of hot coffee that kicked in soon afterwards certainly did. 

Angel passed out on their couch for the entire rest of the morning, woke up in time to blearily eat a bowl of lunch, and dozed on and off for another two hours before joining the land of the living properly. Eva was out working, so only Connie heard his explanation of what had happened — his father had seen Al, kicked him out, and now wanted him back again. Not a great explanation, he skimmed over too many details for it to be anything more than the most oversimplified of rundowns, but Angel’s chest hurt and his breath hitched anyways. Connie didn’t push. 

-=-=-=-

There was a knock on Connie and Eva’s door sometime mid morning, and before Angel could get up from the couch to see who it was, the door clicked and opened to reveal Molly. Angel froze in his seat. Her eyes caught on him, and they held eye contact for a few, tense, moments. Then, she sighed and walked inside. Angel flinched as she came closer, eyes sad. 

“...hi, Tony,” she said quietly. 

“Hi Molls.” He scanned her face nervously. “I’m not—” 

“I’m… not gonna ask you ta come home, Tony,” she interrupted, predicting what he had been about to say.

Angel relaxed imperceptibly, but sat up a little straighter. “You ain’t?” 

“No. I do miss ya, I miss ya so much,” Molly admitted. “Ari does to, though he won’t admit it ta me, but… it would be selfish ta ask you ta come home. I know how much ya hated it, I can’t ask that a’ you.” 

She came and sat down on the couch with him, taking his hands in hers. They were cold from being outside in the chilly spring air. The two sat in silence for a few more long beats, before Angel tightened his lips. 

“What is it, then?” He asked, voice steely. 

“Pops is still lookin’ for ya. I think he’s tryin’ ta keep it a secret from the rest of the… Business, so he only has Ari and  _ zio _ on it right now — as well as pops himself. If he doesn’t find ya soon, he’ll say you’re on a trip, or ill, or somethin’...” she took a deep breath, in and out. “You should move on soon, Tony. I think the only reason he doesn’t know you’re here yet is ‘cus Ari’s convinced him you’re already halfway outta New York.” 

He shook his head. “I know that, Molls. I always knew that. Don’t tell Connie and Eva this cus they think I gotta ‘nother place lined up but I don’t. I can’t keep burdenin’ them like this though Molly, I know they ain’t doin’ so hot in this economy and they don’t need ta be worried about me.” 

“Where’ll ya go, Tony?” She asked, and Angel smiled wryly. 

“Streets, I guess,” he said. “Gigante’s still givin’ me work, and the Tiger’s not a bad place to fix up once in a while. I’ll save up and catch a train outta here. Chicago don’t sound too bad, does it?” 

Molly just shook her head, and didn’t answer. Instead, she took out her bag and put it in her lap with a huff of breath. “Here are your things from my room that would fit in my bag,” she said. “Pops was watchin’ me go, but call me up before— call me, and I’ll bring you your dresses too. None of ‘em fit me anyways.” 

“Thanks, Molls. I ‘ppreciate it.” Silence fell again, for several long moments. Then, Angel opened his arms with a sigh, and Molly fell into him and clutched his back like he was going to disappear into the wind. 

-=-=-=-

It was the bloodstain that caught his eye first, a smear of red on white paper. The envelope was crumpled, seemingly stuffed hastily into the dumpster, opened and with the letter poking out. Knowing his luck it would be somebody’s unpaid bills that they got a paper cut and bled all over, but he couldn’t help the curiosity. 

Drawing the piece of paper out, the top half seemed to be a letter, while the bottom was a list of materials and instructions. Upon closer inspection, it was a ritual — a summoning spell, seemingly to reach the letter’s author.  _ Tsk. Witchcraft _ . Most of that stuff was nonsense. 

“Husker, what are you doing?” Someone called from down the street. 

The man — early twenties, ungelled hair and bowtie lopsided — stuffed the crinkled letter into his jacket without a second thought and hurried on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, curiosity killed the cat, Husk ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Is this angst? Is this was angst is? I wouldn’t know, I don’t usually write it... this chapter was really just an exercise of stuff I don’t usually write, huh? Angst, a smattering of sexual content, the only thing missing is a fight scene lmao
> 
> Sorry again for the wait, and please leave a comment! They’re super duper appreciated. Love you guys!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting change!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again!! I tried really hard to get this up before the end of January, but I only started trying like... two days ago, so. Sorry for the wait!
> 
> Updates will probably continue to be sporadic, since the deal I made with myself went “you can only start *brand new project* if you finish at least one (1) chapter of Blood first” so here I am. I’ll try to keep this short though, so more details and stuff will be in the end notes 
> 
> TW in the end notes as well

_ I’m fine. _

**I didn’t say anything, mon ange**

_ Meh… you were thinkin’ it though _

**I’m glad you’re alright, angel. Catch me up on what’s happened?**

_ lss; pops wasn’t too happy, and im not living at home rn. Looking into train tickets out of the city, M&A + Connie are helpin out, mostly C _

**I’m so sorry, Anthony. I should have been more careful while you were intoxicated.**

_ Not ur fault, Al… couldn’t have known pops’d be home early. Was good to see you  _

**As long as you’re alright, my dear. I still apologise, however.**

_ Ciao, smiles :)  _

**Au revoir, ange :)**

-=-=-=-

The train station wasn’t too crowded when Angel got there, the platform even less so. It was the early hours of the morning, when many of the trains with the furthest destinations left in hopes of reaching their station before it got too late. Ari was there waiting already, without a blink at his miniscule amount of luggage, and he nodded silently in greeting as he approached Angel’s side. There were dark circles under his eyes, but his shoulders were tense, and he kept glancing around the station as though he was afraid to be seen. In his defense, it was a fairly reasonable fear. 

Angel hadn’t seen his brother since the morning after he had left home, nearly two months ago but around this same hour of the morning. Now he was leaving his entire city behind, getting out and as far away as possible – he was starting to see a pattern. At least this time he wasn’t hungover and sore and disgusting from passing out in an alleyway overnight. 

From Molly he had expected a request to stay, and received nothing but acceptance and an offer to help. From Ari he had expected at most a stoic goodbye, but instead– 

“You could come home, ya know.” Angel’s brother shoved his hands in his pocket and looked off to the side, looking for a train that wouldn’t come for another 17 minutes. Ari was three years older and nearly half a head shorter, by now – Angel wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed before. 

“No I couldn’t.” 

“Pops’d be relieved to have found you,” Ari told him.

Angel scoffed. “He’s a businessman. If potential partners found out one a’ his sons had run off, imagine the scandal. The man’d just be relieved he doesn’t have ta deal with tha potential damage to his reputation.” 

“Relieved enough to pretend nothin’ happened, maybe,” Ari said. 

“Not a  _ chance _ . He saw me kissin’ Smiles on the front step, that ain’t just somethin’ he can forget about, Ari.” Angel shook his head. “I’d be weak for crawlin’ back ta him besides. If that’s yer shot at convincin’ me, you’re doin’ a shit job of it.” 

“Figured.” 

Ari fell silent as the sun slowly creeped above the horizon, saturating the grey of the platform in cold pale yellow. Distantly, they both heard the rumble of an incoming train. 

“I don’t suppose I could convince you ta visit,” he said, finally. 

“Ha. What, you’re gonna miss me?” Angel mocked. 

His brother groaned. “You are… so annoying.” 

“An’ you’re an asshole,” Angel shot back easily. “No, ya couldn’t, even if you tried yer very hardest. Which – ya aren’t very convincin’ at the best a’ times, ya know that?”

“Idiot.” 

“Nimrod.” 

The train pulled up to the station with a roar and a gust of wind, the doors sliding open. Around the platform, the few other passengers got in line to board, but the two brothers stood there for a moment longer. Then, with a wave of his hand, Ari turned around. 

“Don’t miss your train, Tony,” he said flatly, not looking over his shoulder. “I better not see yer name in the paper tomorrow for havin’ died in an accident.” 

“I don’t have no control over whetha or not the train crashes, bitch!” Angel called after Ari retreating back. Getting no response, he sighed, and turned around to get into line. 

-=-=-=-

_ I’m out for good. Probably. Train rides are borin as shit _

**Where are you headed, angel?**

_ Midwest, chicago but we’ll see if it’s good enough to stay. And if I have enough money to get out, if it ain’t, haha _

**Very funny, mon ange. Was my hometown not lovely enough to win you over?**

_ Meh… don’t fancy takin a train to New Orleans again, even if permanently? Place has bad vibes _

**Fair enough. Realistically though, what are you planning now that there’s little to no chance of you returning to New York? You’ve been uncharacteristically tight-lipped about the whole ordeal, my dearest.**

_ Ha. I actually don’t really know? Best chance is to find a good place to work in Chicago, save until I have enough to have a permanent place to stay or get out to somewhere better. Maybe somewhere warm? I’ve heard the weather is nice in California.  _

**As have I. It would suit you. Best of luck then–**

_ Mmhmm. Thanks, smiles.  _

-=-=-=-

Chicago, Angel decided, huddling out of the wind in an alleyway, was not at all for him. Perhaps it was more appealing to people who decided they enjoyed the dirty sprays of slush from passing automobiles, and the biting cold created by the roaring wind tunnels between buildings. New York winters were one thing, but January in Chicago was another thing altogether. 

A bit over half a year in the city, and Angel still didn’t have enough for a place – he’d finally found a place where clients were readily available, a thing which required knowing a city, and established a few regulars. By then though, it was too late, and funds had to be funneled towards preparing for a winter on the streets instead. 

Wrapped in a large coat, Angel chanced stepping back out onto the sidewalk, his hood immediately ripped back from his head by the wind. His damp hair, long enough to get everywhere but not to tie up, whipped directly into his face and eyes like it had a personal vengeance against him. The snow was blowing directly into his face, making him screw up his eyes and try to bury himself further into his coat, to no avail. He wanted to find a place to hang said coat up to dry overnight, as wearing it was starting to get uncomfortable – the back was almost completely wet from leaning against the wall, and in this weather, the front soon would be as well, just from the few steps he was taking to get inside.

If Angel could manage to spend the night in some bar, or even better with a client, it hopefully would only be slightly damp by morning. He probably wouldn’t get any sleep, but it was a price he was willing to pay. Or maybe he would get a few drinks and pass out in a booth once he stopped caring about the noise, which he supposed was also an option. Angel wasn’t sure how restful that would actually be, but it might last him through another few sleepless nights. 

Yikes. What had his life come to. It was a bit alarming that Angel’s mind hadn’t even flinched at thinking that. 

The bar door opened in a gush of hot air and warm yellow light. The inside of the bar looked larger than the outside should have allowed, the narrow entrance opening up into long counters and tiled floors, with dark booths and tables in the back for those too drunk to sit on stools without falling over. Or, you know, customers with some semblance of a social life. 

Angel came in mostly empty-handed, most of his belongings hidden out of the storm behind a dumpster. If he had wanted to freeze to death Angel would have probably been hiding behind that dumpster as well, but unfortunately the space wasn’t large enough for him and the duffle bag. The bottom would probably get a bit wet, but it was sheltered from the worst of the weather, and the snow would hide it from potential thieves, as well as preventing the dumpster from being moved, so Angel was pretty confident about leaving it there. 

With half-frozen hands, Angel pulled his wallet out of his pocket before handing away his coat and making his way over to the bar. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to waste his money on things he technically didn’t need, but may as well have a drink or two to keep life worth living. A dollar’s difference wasn’t enough to make Angel care. 

Once he received his drink he moved towards the back of the bar, away from the door, which was letting wind and snow in every few minutes as more people entered the bar. He supposed it was also possible that this was why the back tables existed – to let people escape from the weather. Angel hadn’t been to this particular bar before, the place being a bit too hole-in-the-wall to catch his eye, but it was rather cozy. 

In one of the booths, a pair of men playing poker caught Angel’s eye, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was because they were both so obviously drunk, despite it being quite early in the evening. Maybe because they were both in their early to mid twenties, or something along those lines – around Angel’s age, unlike the handful of middle aged men and singular teenager desperately trying to appear of-age. Maybe because one of them – black hair gelled back from a widows peak, red bowtie undone and hanging around his neck – was snarking back at his friend with a very New York accent. 

“What the  _ hell _ is your luck, Husker?” The friend was asking incredulously. 

“It ain’t luck pal…” Husker grinned as he began to shuffle again. “It’s just pure skill.” 

“Or you’re fucking cheatin’,” the other complained, leaning his chin on his hand as he slid a couple cards across the table. 

“Me? Cheat? Never.” Husker laughed. “Want to do a best of seven? Or are you giving up?” 

“Man, I don’t even want that weird-ass letter anyways, fuckin’ keep it. You’re winning too much money off of me for this.” 

“You’re the one who wanted to bet for it in the first place.” He waved the piece of paper in the air, the words facing away from his friend – and thus facing  _ towards _ Angel. “I have no idea why you wanted it anyways.” 

Angel squinted at the shapes of the paragraphs and signature against the pale paper in the dark room, his eyes widened, and the next thing he knew he had stood up, his chair sliding across the damp floor with a screech. In a few steps, he was standing in front of the two men, who were both looking up at him with mixed curiosity and annoyance. 

“That letter. Where’d ya find it?” he asked. 

“Just around. Why do you care?”

He shook his head and didn’t answer, instead sitting down in the booth across from Husker. “‘ _ Happy eighteenth birthday, my dear Anthony. I hope this comes as a welcome surprise _ ’, right? Signed fuckin’ uhh, ‘ _ most sincerely and with many well wishes, Alastor _ ’ or somethin’ along those lines, the formal bastard. I don’t have the entire thing memorized, but that’s basically how it goes.” 

Husker scanned the letter, squinting to read the delicate cursive lettering in the dim lighting of the bar. “How tha hell did you know that?” he asked. 

“Yeah, uh, that letter is  _ mine _ . The name’s Anthony, and tha last place I saw that letter was some dumpster in New York City nearly a year ago, so you’d understand why I’m wonderin’ why it’s popped up again.” Angel took a deep breath. “Also, ya know. I’d like it back.” 

“If you threw it away, I dunno why you want it back,” Husker told him. “Finders fucking keepers.”

“Ya don’t even want it!” Angel threw his hands into the air, half meaning it and half just being dramatic. “Just hand the thing over, it’s mine originally.”

“Ehh… not a chance.” he raised his eyebrows. “Can you believe how much money I’ve won off this guy with this letter? I’m not giving it away now.” 

“Hey, what the fuck?” the other man protested. “I don’t even want it anymore, at least give the rando a chance to win it off of you.” 

Husker raised his eyebrows, made a show of thinking it over, and turned back to Angel. “You want a chance to win it back? Just one game, no rematch, no three out of three, no five out of five, whatever. One game of poker.” 

“If I win I get the letter back, no questions asked,” Angel said in agreement. “And if you?” 

“You’re actually the Anthony in the letter?” Husker asked, and waited for Angel’s nod before continuing. “Then  _ when _ I win, you have to explain everything I ask about the letter, and tell the truth. Including why you want it back so badly.” 

-=-=-=-

_ Uhhh, faint warning, but there’s a guy running around Chicago with your summoning instructions?  _

**Pardon me, Anthony?**

_ Yeah… long story short, I lost them, and this guy Husker now knows that they actually work _

**...how in the absolute** **_world_ ** **did you manage** **_that_ ** **, mon ange**

_ Honestly, its a mystery to me too. I think he cheats at poker? _

**Angel. what??**

-=-=-=-

The darkness crept up on Angel like a thief, and when he managed to open his eyes against the darts of snow, he could barely see the sidewalk in front of him. In another step, he skidded across a patch of ice and barely caught himself on the wall of a nearby building. It had been just over a decade since Angel had arrived in Chicago, unable to leave the city, but it had never felt like home. The streets remained unfamiliar, the howling winds between buildings uncanny, the lake that seemed as large as an ocean at first and second glance eerie. 

Still, his blood sang warm in his veins, warm under the stiffness of his half-frozen hands. He shoved them back into the pockets of his coat, and the snow melted into cold dampness on the fabric, which clung to his fingers. The alcohol helped with the cold, but Angel could still  _ feel _ — the biting storm against his face, and ice under his feet. His toes were numb inside his boots, and he thought that maybe he ought to be numb all over. To no longer feel at all, not just the cold but also the warmth. What Angel would give to be warm. 

He dry swallowed a pill, hands too cold to even try breaking it apart. Angel sniffed, the freezing air feeling like it burned the inside of his nostrils, and walked on. Slowly, he made his way over to an alleyway filled with slush and dirty snow, at least that he could tell. The streetlights were too dim to light up the shadows between buildings as well, and the early darkness was all-encompassing. 

Distantly, Angel fancied he could feel the PCP starting to go through his system, spreading numbly against the ember-like burn of alcohol. Suddenly weak, he collapsed into the snow, forcing himself further into the alley before leaning against the brick wall. He could barely feel the slush drenching the bottom of his coat. His eyes closed, and the back of Angel’s head thumped against the brick wall. The snow was soft, and the alley was out of the wind — all things considered, not a bad place for a nap. 

Angel hoped he wouldn’t wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: homelessness, drug use, drug overdose (non-graphic), suicidal thoughts, major character death, 
> 
> 1) “lss” means “long story short”. M&A are Molly and Ari, and C is obviously Connie. 
> 
> 2) The acceptance of him leaving without any questioning was probably the... biggest? Sign of love Angel felt he could have gotten from Molly, since they’ve basically been best friends their entire lives and he knows his sister will miss him terribly. Not trying to convince Angel to stay at home was incredibly selfless of her. HOWEVER — Ari and Angel’s relationship has always been a bit more strained, and Ari especially doesnt’ do open or obvious affection. Therefore it’s a lot more meaningful that Ari not only knows he’ll miss Angel, but enough so that he’s willing to put himself into a vulnerable position and ask Angel to stay (even if in a roundabout way). I love this for them. 
> 
> 3) people from New York always complain about their winters, but I looked it up and they hardly go below 25F degrees? Pathetic. Anyways Chicago in January is like,,, -5F so rip Angel. 
> 
> That’s the end of an arc! Next chapter we’ll still have some Angel, but Alastor is getting a plot line I’m a bit excited about :3. Thank you so much for reading!!! Please leave some kudos and drop a comment, I might not respond but I do read and appreciate all of them! They’re really motivating as well, and might make me update a little faster this time >w>
> 
> Oh  
> You’re still here?  
> You want to hear about that fic I mentioned wanting to write earlier?  
> Well if you’re interested, because this will probably get posted before the next chapter of Blood if we’re being honest, I’ll be working on a Sleepy Bois Inc road trip fic! It’ll be under this same pseudonym, probably mostly fluff and character dynamics, fully platonic, and around 15,000 words long? Who knows, but if you’re into MCYT, that’s the next thing I’ll be posting. Much love!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel's first few hours in Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3 look I'm back!! and it hasn't been another two months!! I've been bribing myself into writing this fic, but if you like MCYT or whatever, I've been writing quite a bit of that recently as well. Thanks for your patience with this sort of thing by the way, everyone!! <3

Angel was cold. Freezing, even. He was tumbling through darkness, falling through the void, the Nothing. In the corners of his vision (were his eyes even open?) figures darted in and out of the shadows, and dancing lights like lightning and snow flashed between them. His view shifted, tilted, as he was buffeted by the non-existent wind. 

The darkness and the cold and the buzzing movement was all around him, and Angel was falling through it. 

A falling angel. 

Ha. Ironic. 

-=-=-=-

The alleyway Angel woke up with was dark, slightly damp, and so much warmer than the similarly dark and damp alleyway he had passed out in. The navy tinge of winter evening had turned into a dark red hue – there was no sun, but light instead came from the bright red sky. He had two extra sets of arms which… took a few moments to adjust to, but once he stopped thinking about it they weren’t terribly difficult to control. His legs were also much longer, making Angel much taller in general, which made him feel a bit like he was walking on stilts. 

Other changes that Angel catalogued as he made himself at home in his new body: he now had fangs, sharp enough to cut his tongue on if he wasn’t careful. On his chest, the fur was thick and fluffy enough to look like tits, with a heart pattern going across them. Thankfully, they weren’t like, actual breasts, and the mound of flesh underneath the fluff was relatively small. Angel breathed a sigh of relief. Also, he had guns. So many guns. All his favorite kinds of guns, for free. The same way he could pull out an extra pair of arms from nowhere, Angel could also pull out so many kinds of guns. 

After he was able to get around without falling over the fact that he had suddenly grown at least two heads taller, he noticed a scrawl of red handwriting across the palm of one of his hands. 

**Are you here yet, dear angel? I’m waiting for you~**

Stroking over the words with his thumb, Angel looked around. He didn’t have any writing utensils on him, nor did he know where in Hell he was, literally. After all, at this point, he was certainly in Hell. The sky was red, the neon signs that popped up everywhere advertised various sinful pleasures, if not just the word “ _ Sin _ ” on it’s own, and the people were… not people. More like what Al had described demons to look like — all different shapes and sizes, and none particularly humanoid. He didn’t see a radio tower anywhere nearby though, despite looking around as thoroughly as he could from his alleyway, which was… unfortunate. 

Feigning confidence, Angel sauntered into the nearest establishment, winking at the bouncer on his way in. Time to establish a reputation, make first impressions, right? Plopping down onto a stool, he grinned wide at the bartender and propped his head on his hand. 

“Heya, toots. Fancy lettin’ me borrow a pen or somethin’? I gotta write somethin’ down.” 

Looking bored, the demon reached under the bar and handed him a ballpoint pen. “You actually gonna order something?” She asked. 

“Mmm, maybe. I haven’t decided yet~” Angel picked a different hand and jot down a note on his palm. 

_I’m here. Dunno where, have fur so limited room._ _will find out or find u. Cya soon, Smiles <3_

Suddenly, Angel heard a smooth voice speak up from next to him, and he instinctively hid his palms against his thighs before turning. While alive, he couldn’t be caught talking to Al with a soulmark, but here in Hell, nobody could be caught talking to their soulmate at all. The demon had pale blue skin, but was dressed in the most over-the-top, stereotypical red pimp outfit Angel had ever seen. A long red coat with a furry zebra-stripe trim, a huge white fur collar with red hearts, and an extra tall red hat, this time with a giant zebra-striped feather almost as Angel’s arm. The bartender almost bowed in deference at the demon’s appearance — so he must be important then. 

“Overlord Valentino! What can I get for you, sir?” 

“Pornstar, sweetcakes, and whatever this lovely lady might like to drink?” Valentino openly leered at him, and Angel nearly preened before realizing. 

“With all due respect, mista Valentino, I’m a man — if that sways ya on whether or not ya still want to buy me a drink.” 

“‘Course you are.” Valentino waved a hand through the air carelessly. “My mistake. Get this lovely  _ gentleman _ whatever he likes, then.”

With a smile, Angel turned back to the bartender and scanned the menu, leaning back on his lower set of hands so that his chest fluff stood a little more prominently. “Right then. Just an angel’s delight, if ya got it.” 

The bartender hurried off, and Valentino turned to him. “So, I didn’t catch your name, baby,” he commented, leaning forward. 

“Name’s Angel, mista Valentino~” Angel stroked a finger over the line of handwriting on his palm, keeping a soft smile off his face by replacing it with a feral grin. “Angel Dust.” 

“Pleasure meetin’ you, angel-cake,” the overlord said, not seeming to notice Angel’s internal struggle. “You’re new, aren’tcha? It ain’t hard to tell.” 

He sighed. “Ya ain’t wrong, mista Val. What gave it away?”

Valentino looked him up and down with a lecherous grin. “No clothes, Angel baby. Nobody falls down here with any. And—“ he tilted his head towards the pen that Angel was still flicking up and down in his hand. “Ya tryin to contact someone? It ain’t gonna work, sweetheart. Your soul’s too fucked and dirtied and whatever else up ta have a mate down here, but everyone can’t help but try it at first.” 

Forcing his expression into a pout, Angel smeared the ink against the fur on his thigh, rendering it illegible before propping his elbow up on the counter and showing it to Valentino. “Ya caught me,” he sighed. “My soulmate died with me, and he’s prolly down here too — was hopin’ ta find ‘im or somethin’” 

“Bad luck then, angel-cake — you two got down here at a bad time. Extermination’s comin’ up, and unless ya boyfriend finds somewhere ta hole up real quick, he’s a goner. ‘Course, I could protect ya ‘till it’s over, and perhaps you can go lookin’ after that, if you can still recognize each other.” 

Was the extermination coming up? He hadn’t had a real conversation with Al for a few days, so maybe it just hadn’t come up… still, Alastor usually at least mentioned the annual gala in passing as it came up. Maybe Angel was just over-thinking. The drinks came, and Angel took a subtle sniff of his before letting himself take a small sip. He could feel Valentino’s peering eyes on him as he did so, and when Angel looked up he saw that they were approving. His next sip of the drink was a little bit larger. 

“So,” Angel commented. “What’s the catch then? For this… protection?” 

And then the leer was back. “You’re quite a pretty one, Angel Dust. Hell did ya well with this body. I run a studio, sweetheart, a studio that a demon like you would do quite excellently at.” He leaned back for his drink, and Angel did the same. “If ya like the work, of course you can stay~ most of my employees are contract workers, after all.”

He thought about it. If the extermination really  _ was _ coming up, and he wasn’t able to find Alastor before then, the chances of his dying permanently was fairly high. And Hell, to his understanding, was fairly large – the part that sinners were allowed to access  _ alone _ was the size of a country, and much of it was urban. Even if Alastor had made himself very easy to find, the population alone meant that Angel would likely run out of time. 

“Ya make sure I don’t die in the comin’ extermination – and I’ll work a few shifts at… your explicit filmin’ studio?”

“Exactly, sweetheart.” 

Angel pursed his lips. “If I’m workin’ for ya up until the extermination, how do I know ya won’t just kill me off on tha day of or tha day before – get free labor outta me ‘til there’s a convenient excuse for my disposal?” he asked. “Not ta uhh… give ya ideas or anythin’.” 

Valentino nodded with a smile. “Smart boy, angel cakes. Very smart – you’re catchin’ on fast for someone who fell so recently.” Angel half preened under the praise. “I’ll happily strike a deal with you, angie baby. So long as you do as I say and do good work for me, I’ll protect you from everything. Not just the exterminators, but other demons as well, so you know I’m serious about you.” 

Alarm bells were ringing in the back of Angel’s head – he wasn’t stupid, he knew he couldn’t trust anyone in this cesspit as far as he could throw them. Nobody but Alastor, that was – but he had no idea where the older demon was. Still, it was a tempting offer, even if he ignored the foggy emotions that the easy praise gave him. 

“That sounds an awful lot like a contract, Mista Valentino,” Angel mused out loud, judging the other demon’s reaction to his questioning consideringly. There was none, just a tilt of the head, with no change to his expression whatsoever. “I’ll think about it, ‘aight. I’ll consider it, really.” 

“Of course, Angel. No pressure, of course.” The head-tilt continued. “But you’ll come back to the studio, won’t you? However will I find you? – you’ll allow me to at least show you where it is in the district.” 

“Sure,” Angel allowed. 

-=-=-=-

Alastor was out for one of his usual strolls, patrolling his territory as he stretched his senses out as far as they could go. Radios flickered into static as he passed them, and clips of conversations reached his ears as he walked in and out of range. He skimmed the borders of the lust district – by now firmly under Valentino’s control rather than his own, and seemingly flourishing. Unusually, the residents of the lust district didn’t run in fear like many of his own citizens did, they simply watched. None of them approached him, but there was no fear in the eyes of the prostitute Alastor was walking in the opposite direction of, only a flash of curiosity before they went their separate ways. How intriguing. 

While he didn’t usually venture into Valentino’s domain, Alastor supposed it wouldn’t hurt to see exactly what the other demon was up to. The two rarely crossed paths, with the exception of the extermination gala. Valentino paid the tax, and Alastor didn’t stick his nose in the man’s business – that was how things had been run for the past several years, and Alastor was  _ not _ a man of change. As much as his… guests would beg to differ, of course. 

The studio rose into view a block or two later, being the tallest thing in the area. A tall, modern looking thing of brick and steel and glass, glowing signs above the door proclaiming what went on inside in… truly unnecessary detail. This was where Valentino spent most of his time, apparently – Alastor was mildly surprised that the main building of the lust district wasn’t even a brothel, but he supposed one couldn't sell sex to demons who weren’t visiting the district. Porn, on the other hand, could get anywhere and everywhere, and so that was where Valentino made the most profit. Not that there was any shortage of the former, but still. 

He was stopped, expectedly, by the security at the front of the studio, but was let inside with a flash of his card. The inside of the studios looked more like the lobby of a hotel than anything else, though many of the “hotel guests” wore plain white robes and little else. Heavy camera equipment and set pieces were rolled around on carts, and actors mumbled scripts to themselves as they hurried to where they needed next to film. The element of nudity Alastor had predicted was present, but not flaunted, and there was certainly no debauchery happening in the lobby. After all, one needed to have at least some level of professionalism to keep their job – this was, more than anything else, a place of employment. 

A fox demon at the front desk, presumably some sort of receptionist, waved Alastor over when he paused to look around. Her shirt was cut in a way that pushed out her fluffy russet bosom, and her ears twisted around to catch conversations from across the room. 

“Are you signing in as an employee, or do you have an appointment?” she asked as soon as he approached. 

“I’m here to speak with Valentino? Though I don’t believe there’s an appointment, as this visit was rather short-notice – my apologies.” 

She pushed up her glasses – thin gold frames, a rounded sort of half-circle – up her nose, and flipped through a notepad. “Alastor?” she asked, and when he nodded, continued. “You’re right, this is pretty short notice, but you’re on here. Go on up, Mister Valentino’s expecting you.”

“Is he,” Alastor said, raising his eyebrows. 

The fox demon scanned the page again and nodded. “Appointment made 23 minutes ago, marked urgent. He’s waiting for you on the fifth floor, no room specified… he’s probably observing at the moment, but ask an employee and they’ll likely be able to direct you to the correct set.”

“Ah, I see.” Twenty-three minutes ago – likely around the time that Alastor entered the lust district, clearly headed for the central building. He ought to have suspected every demon in the district was under Valentino’s thumb, no matter their “official” employment. He couldn’t pin it down to a specific demon, but since it easily could have been any and all of them Alastor didn’t particularly need to. Instead he just marked the information as important in his mind, and filed it away for later. “Well, I appreciate your help.” 

“No problem. Please remember to give earlier notice if you ever need another appointment though!” 

-=-=-=-

Angel was quickly shown to an unoccupied room within the studios, mirrors lining the walls and the sheets on the bed freshly changed. Valentino had taken the pen from him with a sympathetic smile, and with no excuse to keep it, Angel had had to let it go. And then, with a swish of his long coat, Valentino left him alone. 

“Got an important business meetin’, angel cakes,” he had said over his shoulder. “Can’t miss it. I’ll be back ta help you settle in soon, baby, get to know some of my girls while I’m out, right? They’ll let you know how good things are ‘round here, everyone remembers bein’ freshly fallen. Don’t stray too far from your room though, angie, or I won’t be able to find you when I get back.” 

The wardrobe and closet were both empty, the bed comfortable but not comforting – Angel wasn’t even tired, besides. It was a better living situation than he’d had in years, and yet… he didn’t know what he’d expected, arriving in Hell. 

Part of him still thought the place would be based on his worst nightmares, a perpetual winter storm and numb fingers, rude drivers whipping brown slush at pedestrians and fingers numbing in his gloves. Living on the streets with no alleyways for him to keep out of the wind, warm windows in his vision but no money in his pockets. The other part, which actually paid attention to everything Alastor had told him, knew the facts. The oppressive dry warmth and dim red lighting, crows with razor sharp teeth who remembered everything, and cowards who were just trying to survive to the next year. That part of Angel had, for some reason, thought that he would fall into Alastor’s arms – land right outside the radio tower and make eye-contact with his soulmate as the other walked out the door. That he would be taken care of until he adjusted, be taken out at Alastor’s side… it was unreasonable, Angel knew. Foolish, if anything, near-impossible. 

There was a knock on the door, and he opened it to a short boy with curly blond hair and yellow flowers growing out of his scalp. His eyes were pitch black with curls of white to indicate where he was looking, curly ram horns hooked around his ears, and red-eyed wasps buzzed around him. Angel startled back, but the boy just handed him a plain white robe. 

“Angel, right?” he asked, and smiled gently as Angel nodded and took the robe from him. “Hey, big man! Mister Valentino told everyone on the floor that you’re new, so I thought I’d drop this off for you… it’s a bit shitty being new, but a lot of the people here are alright. Oh, and I was going to offer to show you around the floor, if you wanted?” 

“Mista Val said not ta stray too far from my room or whatever though,” Angel said. “I don’t wanna give him a hard time since he’s already going out of his way to host me, ya know?” 

The boy snickered. “Well, compared to the rest of the studio, even all the way across the floor isn’t all that far.  _ Besides _ , Mister Valentino will be in his meeting for  _ ages _ , it’d be a  _ little _ fucked to keep you trapped here for an hour and a half, or something,” he shrugged. “Why not? He’ll never know or anything, and you’ll want to know if you’re gonna be sticking around for more than like… a day. The name’s Tamoo, by the way.” 

“‘Aight then, why not.” Angel secured the robe around his waist with a grin. Another test of Valentino’s character – though he didn’t really want to purposefully antagonize the man, it couldn’t hurt… right? “I’m Angel Dust, though I guess ya know that already.” 

-=-=-=-

When Alastor found him, Valentino was already walking with another demon – clearly not an employee, the other was well dressed in a black and white pinstripe suit and a bright red bowtie. He was much more humanoid than the demon he was walking beside, albeit with a boxy and frankly rather cumbersome-looking head, two long antennae sticking out the top. Valentino noticed him first, heart-shaped glasses pinpointing onto his face. 

“Ah, Alastor,” Valentino said, turning. He spun a ballpoint pen in his fingers idly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? This… very short-notice, non-agreed upon visit.” His expression stayed politely blank, but he tilted his head in a way that Alastor’s mind registered as predatory. Alastor, both predator and prey, half deer and half hunter, didn’t like this whatsoever. His smile widened, baring his teeth back at him. 

“I was simply in the area, and thought I might stop by to check up,” he replied blandly. “I do like to know how my business partners are doing, and besides. I had no idea you were busy.” 

“Who’s this fuckin’ creep,” Alastor’s ears picked up from the TV demon, and Valentino stifled a laugh. 

“Ah, I should introduce you two,” Valentino said easily. “Vox, this is the Radio Demon, Overlord Alastor. Alastor, this is my close friend, Vox. Lucifer is processing his Overlord request at the moment, so he should be at the next Extermination Gala. He really is quite up-and-coming, you know, the demon to go to for all these sorts of new technology – Vox is sort of our blade of change, in these times.” 

“Our Blade of Change, hmm?” Alastor questioned. He closed his fingers against the handle of his oldest knife without materializing it, skating gloved nails over the black blade. “How curious, that I’ve never heard of him until now.” 

Valentino grinned, finally, reaching up to adjust his glasses. “Don’t you know, Alastor? Things are changing, down here in Hell. We are simply changing with it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so fucking excited to write Alastor in Hell again :DD we'll be getting into those time-skip-y montage chapters soon as well, I'm pretty excited for Vox and Husk's characters, and hopefully Charlie's introduction is coming up soon! Tamoo may or may not show up again, but even if he doesn't I hope you liked him! I'd be happy to elaborate on his character to anyone who asks in the comments because I Love Him uwu. Also... high key interested in how the Valentino & Angel dynamic will play out... 
> 
> No promises, but hopefully you won't have to wait a horribly long time for an update... again... 
> 
> Also, please consider leaving me a comment on this chapter!! I obviously write because I love to, but comments are also a huge source of motivation for me to continue doing so with a specific fic. I may not respond, but be assured that I read every single one and will probably run around in excitement about them as well lmao. Thank you so much!!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment, yes I am accepting bribery to write more via complements. No I am unfortunately not taking criticism at this time, much apologies. Love you guys though <3
> 
> Inspo playlist 💖: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3X5kv2viUFeMLivPcLZmaM?si=GxuKgmBjSMWVK0XrqqRRrg


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